CALIF. 


L09 


PLAIN-  SPEAKING- 


BY  THE  AUTHOR  OP 

"JOHN  HALIFAX,  GENTLEMAN" 

rC,™K,},'*. 


NEW    YORK 
HARPER    &    BROTHERS,   FRANKLIN    SQUARE 

1882 


BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "JOHN  HALIFAX." 


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LIBRARY   EDITION. 


MY  MOTHER  AND   I. 

HANNAH. 

OLIVE. 

OGILVIES. 

A  BRAVE   LADY. 

THE  WOMAN'S  KINGDOM. 

MISTRESS  AND  MAID. 

UNKIND  WORD. 

HEAD  OF  THE  FAMILY. 

JOHN  HALIFAX,  GENTLEMAN. 

AGATHA'S  HUSBAND. 

PLAIN-SPEAKING. 


A  LIFE  FOR  A  LIFE. 

TWO   MARRIAGES. 

CHRISTIAN'S   MISTAKE. 

A  NOBLE  LIFE. 

A  HERO. 

STUDIES  FROM   LIFE. 

THE   FAIRY  BOOK. 

SERMONS  OUT  OF  CHURCH. 

THE   LAUREL  BUSH. 

A  LEGACY. 

YOUNG  MRS.  JARDINE. 

HIS  LITTLE  MOTHER,  &C. 


12mo,  Cloth,  $1  25  per  volume. 


PnnT.i8UEi>  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 

03"  §*vt  by  mail,  pottage  prepaid,  to  any  part  of  the  United  Statet,  on  receipt  of  the  pr 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

THE  TIDE  AT  THE  FLOOD 7 

VICTIMS  AND  VICTIMIZERS 19 

"ODD"  PEOPLE 33 

A  LITTLE  Music 53 

CONIES 71 

DECAYED  GENTLEWOMEN 91 

ON  NOVELS  AND  NOVEL-MAKERS 119 

LIGHT  IN  DARKNESS  (A  BIOGRAPHICAL  STUDY)  .     .     .  145 

AN  ISLAND  OF  THE  BLEST 189 

How  SHE  TOLD  A  LIE 217 

A  RUINED  PALACE .  237 


2133667 


PRELIMINARY. 


IT  has  been  remarked,  "You  may  say  anything,  to 
anybody,  if  you  only  know  how  to  say  it."  That  is, 
with  kindliness,  good  temper,  and  calm  justice;  with- 
out bumptiousness,  and,  above  all,  free  from  the  small- 
est suspicion  of  envy,  malice,  and  all  uncharitableness. 
Under  such  conditions,  the  act  of  speaking  one's  mind, 
usually  so  obnoxious,  is  shorn  of  much  of  its  harmful- 
ness  ;  and  fault-finding  becomes  less  a  weapon  of  offence 
than  a  surgeon's  lancet,  used  not  for  injury,  but  cure. 

Therefore,  if  in  this  or  succeeding  papers  I  say  some- 
what hard  things,  I  beg  my  readers  to  believe  that  it  is 
not  out  of  a  hard  heart,  careless  of  giving  pain,  but  a 
sad  heart,  knowing  that  pain  must  be  given;  and  that  if 
bitter  truths  need  to  be  spoken,  they  are  better  spoken 
by  an  optimist  than  a  pessimist,  by  a  straightforward 
Christian  woman  than  by  a  cynic  or  a  laughing  philoso- 
pher. 

Also  let  me  wholly  disclaim  intentional  personalities. 


VI  PRELIMINARY. 

If  there  be  a  cap  which  fits  any  one,  and  he  likes  to 
put  it  on  his  own  head  and  fly  into  a  passion  about  it, 
that  is  his  fault,  not  mine.  I  accuse  no  one — let  peo- 
ple's own  consciences  accuse  themselves.  If  by  looking 
into  this  silent  glass  they  see  their  own  image,  and  go 
away,  not  forgetting,  but  remembering  and  amending 
it — for  our  moral  beauty  or  ugliness  depends  very  much 
upon  ourselves — then  my  Plain-speaking  will  be  no 
offence,  nor  shall  I  have  spokeu  altogether  in  vain. 


THE  TIDE  AT  THE  FLOOD 


THE  TIDE  AT  THE  FLOOD, 


"There  is  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men 
Which,  taken  at  the  flood,  leads  on  to  fortune." 

"WHY,  this  is  like  a  bit  out  of  'Cranford,'"  said  I  at 
a  friend  as  we  came  out  into  the  clear  winter  twilight, 
from  a  house  where  she  had  taken  me  to  pay  a  call. 

"Yes;  Mrs.  Gaskell  would  have  made  a  charming 
picture  out  of  that  cosy  little  parlor,  with  Miss  Sarah 
sitting  alone  there,  so  round  and  fat  and  comfortable- 
looking." 

"  Pretty,  too,"  interposed  I ;  "  she  must  have  been 
pretty  when  she  was  young." 

"I  believe  she  was.  What  a  pity  she  has  nothing 
and  nobody  to  devote  herself  to,  except  that  parrot! 
But  the  bird  is  almost  as  good  to  her  as  a  child,  and  as 
troublesome."  (My  friend  does  not  believe  in  the  de- 
lightf ulness  of  children.)  "  And  Miss  Phillis  makes  as 
much  of  the  parrot  as  her  sister  does.  I  wish  you  had 
seen  Miss  Phillis ;  but  she  is  always  out  of  afternoons." 

It  seemed  at  the  other  end  of  the  town  lived  an  old 
1* 


10  THE   TIDE   AT   THE   FLOOD. 

gentleman,  very  helpless  and  infirm,  whom  Miss  Phillis 
for  years  had  gone  to  see  every  day,  spending  an  hour 
or  two  in  reading  or  talking  to  him. 

"In  summer  I  often  used  to  meet  her  walking  beside 
his  Bath-chair.  She  is  not  at  all  like  Miss  Sarah,  but 
very  tall  and  thin,  and  decidedly  active  for  her  years. 
This  winter  I  hear  poor  Mr.  White  cannot  go  out  at 
all,  but  Miss  Phillis  never  misses  a  day  in  going  to  see 
him." 

"  Is  he  a  relation  ?" 

"  Oh  no ;  only  a  very  old  friend.  An  old  bachelor, 
too — quite  solitary.  People  do  say — have  said  it  any 
time  these  thirty  years — that  he  had  better  have  mar- 
ried Miss  Phillis,  and  that  she  would  not  have  objected ; 
but  one  never  knows  the  truth  of  these  things.  They 
have  been  most  steady,  life-long  friends,  anyhow." 

Here,  truly,  was  a  chapter  out  of  "  Cranford,"  or  out 
of  human  life  generally.  Once  I  had  myself  chanced 
to  see  Mr.  White — a  funny  little  old  man  in  a  brown 
Brutus  wig :  it  was  difficult  to  make  a  sentimental  hero 
of  him.  Still— 

"I  have  always  been  rather  fond  of  Miss  Phillis," 
continued  my  friend.  "  She  would  have  made  a  good 
man's  fireside  very  bright.  Perhaps  Mr.  White  was 
one  of  those  who  are  always  missing  their  chances,  who 
cannot  '  take  the  tide  at  the  flood.'  If  so,  it  was  a  pity. 
So  many  let  happiness  slip  by  them,  and  regret  it  when 


THE   TIDE   AT   THE   FLOOD.  11 

too  late.  Not  that  I  am  aware  of  Miss  Phillis's  regret- 
ting anything.  She  is  a  very  cheerful-minded  woman, 
and  is  invaluable  now  to  old  Mr.  White." 

We  were  neither  of  us  in  a  moralizing  mood,  being  also 
cheerful-minded  women,  and  bent  on  enjoying  as  much 
as  possible  our  brief  winter  holiday,  "gently  but  kind- 
ly," like  our  own  advancing  age ;  so  the  conversation 
dropped. 

Since,  however,  it  has  often  recurred  to  me  how  very 
common  is  this  fatal  peculiarity  of  not  being  able  to 
"  take  the  tide  at  the  flood,"  especially  in  love  affairs. 
That  affair  of  Miss  Phillis  and  Mr.  White  may  never 
have  existed  at  all  except  in  the  imagination  of  their 
friends ;  but  I  have  known  several  other  instances  in 
which  a  little  honest  rashness  would  have  been  the  best 
wisdom. 

One  case  for  instance.  They  were  a  young  couple — 
playfellows  from  childhood.  All  their  friends  were 
agreeable  to,  and  expecting,  their  engagement;  nay, 
waiting  somewhat  anxiously  for  the  gentleman  to  make 
up  his  mind  and  say  the  final  word,  which  from  pure 
shyness  he  delayed  doing.  At  last,  one  Sunday — the 
young  lady  was  going  away  from  home  on  Monday — he 
determined  to  speak,  during  their  usual  evening  walk 
from  church.  But,  "I'll  go  to  church  with  you  to- 
night," said  an  unconscious,  well-intentioned  friend. 
Alas !  "  two  is  company,  three  is  none."  The  proposal 


12  THE   TIDE    AT   THE   FLOOD. 

was  not  made— was  never  made.  Three  days  after  the 
lady  accepted  a  long-persistent  suitor,  who  years  before 
had  made  up  his  mind — and  declared  it.  No  hearts 
were  broken,  apparently.  She  married,  but  her  old 
playfellow  is  a  bachelor  still.  He  comes  now  and  then 
to  see  her,  romps  with  her  children,  plays  chess  with  her 
husband,  and  does  not  look  at  all  miserable.  But  per- 
haps, when  he  goes  back  to  his  handsome,  empty  house, 
he  wishes  things  had  been  a  little  different. 

However,  love,  if  it  be  the  heart  of  existence,  consti- 
tutes only  a  small  portion  of  it  externally,  to  a  man  at 
least.  On  many  other  matters  besides  love  matters  this 
inability  to  take  the  tide  at  the  flood  is  fatal.  How 
many  a  man  owes  his  whole  success  in  life  to  the  power 
of  being  able  to  see  the  golden  moment  and  catch  it  ere 
it  flies !  "  All  things  come  alike  to  all."  That  is  (with 
very  rare  exceptions),  every  man  has  a  certain  number 
of  chances;  the  distinction  between  success  and  failure 
is  that  one  grasps  his  chance,  another  lets  it  slip  by. 
An  unanswered  letter,  an  appointment  broken,  a  train 
missed,  may,  for  all  we  know,  change  the  color  of  our 
whole  existence.  All  the  more  so  because  we  do  not 
know ;  until,  looking  back,  we  see  upon  what  trivial 
things — mere  accidents  apparently — hinged  the  most 
important  events  of  our  lives.  A  situation  applied  for 
at  once,  and  gained  "  just  at  the  nick  of  time ; "  a  first 
invitation  accepted,  not  neglected ;  a  business  letter 


THE   TIDE   AT   THE   FLOOD.  13 

answered  without  delay;  an  appointment  kept,  with 
trouble  and  pains,  perhaps,  yet  still  kept :  these  small 
things  have  many  a  time  proved  the  key-stone  of  the 
arch  on  which  a  young  man  has  built  his  fortunes. 
"  Only  a  quarter  of  an  hour ! "  said  an  old  fellow  to  a 
young  one  who  was  apologizing  carelessly  for  having 
kept  him  waiting  thus  long.  "My  friend,  to  that  quar- 
ter of  an  hour  I  owe  everything  in  life !" 

Between  the  courage  which  seizes  an  opportunity  and 
the  sanguine  rashness  which  snatches  at  everything  and 
grasps  nothing,  is  as  wide  a  difference  as  between  brav- 
ery and  foolhardiness. 

Sometimes,  however,  one  may  make  a  mistake.  A 
lady  once  told  me  how  she  stood  before  a  post-office 
with  a  letter  in  her  hand — a  momentous  letter,  written 
on  the  impulse  of  the  moment,  and  with  a  strong  con- 
scientious desire  to  do  the  right,  all  the  more  because 
to  do  it  was  very  painful ;  how  twice,  three  times,  she 
seemed  to  feel  some  invisible  hand  restraining  her  own  ; 
how  she  looked  helplessly  up  to  the  silent  sunset  sky, 
then,  with  a  sort  of  desperation,  dropped  the  letter  into 
the  box — and  repented  it  to  her  dying  day. 

But  these  difficult  crises  seldom  happen.  On  the 
whole,  far  more  harm  is  done  by  irresolution  than  by 
precipitation.  The  feeble  man,  who  never  can  make 
up  his  mind,  who  lets  chance  after  chance  go  past  him, 
is  always  a  little  too  late  for  everything,  and  never 


14  THE   TIDE  AT   THE   FLOOD. 

knows  that  kindly  Fortune  has  touched  him  till  he 
catches  the  last  sad  sweep  of  her  garment  as  she  glides 
by — forever! — the  misery  which  this  man  creates  and 
inflicts — for  it  is  a  fallacy  that  any  one  can  be  nobody's 
enemy  but  his  own — is,  in  the  aggregate,  much  great- 
er than  that  caused  by  the  strong  bad  man.  Him  we 
recognize  at  once,  and  against  him  we  can  protect  our- 
selves a  little ;  against  the  other  we  cannot  protect  our- 
selves at  all.  Our  very  pity  takes  up  arms  against  our 
judgment.  For,  alas !  we  know  the  certain  end — 

"He  that  will  not  when  he  may, 
When  he  would  he  shall  have  nay." 

Only  for  a  single  hopeful  minute  is  the  tide  at  the 
flood ;  once  turned,  it  has  turned  forever,  and 

"  Leaves  him  at  eve  on  the  hleak  shore  alone." 

All  business  men  and  women — for  women  require  to 
be  good  "  men  of  business  "  too  in  this  our  day — know 
that  the  aptitude  for  seeing  the  right  moment  to  do  a 
thing,  and  the  power  to  do  it,  without  rashness,  but  also 
without  delay,  is  a  vital  necessity  of  success — success  in 
anything.  He  who  puts  off  till  to-morrow  what  can  be 
done,  or  ought  to  be  done,  to-day  is  the  most  hopeless 
of  individuals  in  any  position  where  regular  systematic 
work  is  required.  Hopeless  as  a  clerk  or  servant,  but 
more  fatal  still  as  master.  Or  as  mistress ;  for  the  real 
heart  of  a  family  is  almost  always  the  mistress.  If  she 


THE   TIDE  AT  THE   FLOOD.  15 

cannot  take  the  tide  at  the  flood,  judge  the  fittest  mo- 
ment for  domestic  decisions  of  all  kinds,  and  carry  them 
out,  woe  betide  her!  There  may  be  no  actual  ship- 
wreck, but  her  household  bark  will  be  a  very  helpless, 
helmless  vessel  at  best. 

This  habit  of  dilatoriness  and  indecision  is  much  of  it 
mere  habit,  the  habit  of  imitation,  which  the  youngers 
are  so  ready  to  catch  from  the  elders.  Therefore,  even 
the  child  cannot  be  too  early  taught  first  the  necessity 
of  making  up  one's  mind,  and  then  of  acting  upon  it. 
The  trick  of  "  hanging  about,"  of  wasting  minute  after 
minute,  hour  after  hour,  in  work  as  in  play — for  idlers 
never  even  play  conscientiously — is  often  acquired  in 
mere  infancy,  and  never  got  rid  of  to  the  end  of  life. 
What  is  in  the  boy  or  girl  pure  carelessness  becomes  in 
the  man  or  woman  a  confirmed  peculiarity,  which  haunts 
them  like  a  curse,  causing  no  end  of  misery  to  them- 
selves and  all  belonging  to  them. 

For  we  know  our  gains  and  achievements  ;  our  losses, 
our  failures,  we  never  fully  know.  But  we  may  dimly 
guess  at  them,  by  our  despair  over  some  application 
thrown  aside  and  neglected,  till  the  lost  chance  of  bene- 
fiting ourselves  or  our  neighbor  can  never  be  recalled ; 
our  remorse  over  an  unanswered  letter,  when  the  writer 
has  suddenly  gone  whither  no  kindly  word  can  reach 
him  any  more ;  our  regret  over  cordial  visits  left  un- 
paid, and  pleasant  meetings  unvalued,  till  friendship, 


16  THE   TIDE  AT   THE   FLOOD. 

worn  out,  dies  a  natural  death,  or  burns  itself  to  ashes 
like  a  fire  without  fresh  coals.  Then  we  may  lay  the 
blame  on  Providence,  luck,  circumstances ;  anything  or 
anybody  except  the  true  sinner — ourselves. 

"  We  cannot  help  it,"  we  plead,  and  after  a  certain 
time  we  really  cannot  help  it.  There  is  a  disease  called 
paralysis  of  the  will,  an  actual  physical  disease,  though 
its  results  are  moral,  and  every  one  who  cultivates,  or 
rather  does  not  strive  with  all  his  might  to  eradicate, 
the  habit  of  indecision  lays  himself  open  thereto.  A 
baby  who  knows  its  own  mind,  and  stretches  out  the 
little  impetuous  hand,  quite  certain  it  is  the  doll,  and  not 
the  wagon,  that  it  wants  to  play  with,  and  eager  to  snatch 
it  without  wasting  a  minute,  is  a  creature  possessing  a 
quality  not  to  be  despised,  but  encouraged.  The  gift 
of  being  able  to  know  exactly  what  one  wants,  and  the 
strength  to  use  all  lawful  methods  to  get  it,  is  one  of 
the  greatest  blessings  that  can  fall  to  the  lot  of  a  human 
being.  Let  us,  who  are  parents,  try  by  all  conceivable 
means  to  secure  it  to  our  children. 

For  the  young  can  learn  ;  the  old  seldom  can.  "  Re- 
deeming the  time  because  the  days  are  evil"  is  very 
difficult  when  the  days  have  become  "  evil ;"  when  the 
glow  has  gone  out  of  life,  and,  instead  of  the  rosy  flush 
of  hope,  the  gray  twilight  of  endurance  settles  over  all 
things ;  when  we  smile  at  "  taking  the  tide  at  the  flood," 
knowing  that  no  more  tides  will  ever  come,  for  us  at 
least ;  but  they  may  for  our  descendants. 


THE   TIDE   AT   THE   FLOOD.  17 

Let  us  teach  them,  whether  or  not  we  have  learned  the 
lesson  ourselves,  "  Whatsoever  thy  hand  findeth  to  do, 
do  it  with  all  thy  might."  And  do  it  at  the^time.  Not 
to-morrow,  or  the  day  after,  or  by-and-by  when  in  the 
mood  for  it,  but  at  once,  at  the  moment  when  it  presents 
itself  to  be  done.  For  the  tide  will  turn,  and  you  never 
know  the  moment  of  its  turning.  Be  clear-sighted,  cau- 
tious, prudent  —  but,  after  that,  be  decided.  Make  up 
your  mind  slowly  and  carefully ;  but  having  made  it  up, 
act  upon  it.  Do  not  *• 

"Linger  shivering  on  the  brink, 
And  fear  to  launch  away." 

Take  the  tide  at  the  flood ;  plunge  boldly  in ;  do  your 
best,  and  trust  the  rest. 

There  is  an  old  English  verse,  out  of  a  love  poem,  I 
think ;  but  it  applies  to  many  another  crisis  in  life  be- 
sides love : 

"  He  either  fears  his  fate  too  much, 

Or  his  deserts  are  small, 
Who  dares  not  put  it  to  the  touch, 
To  win  or  lose  it  all." 

And,  without  defending  either  folly,  recklessness,  or 
rashness,  I  think  we  may  safely  say  that  the  man  who 
dares  "  put  it  to  the  touch  "  is  the  man  most  likely  to 
have  his  fate  in  his  own  hands.  Whatever  happens  to 
him,  he  will  at  least  have  the  consolation  of  knowing 
that  he  has  lost  nothing  through  weakness  or  delay. 


18  THE   TIDE  AT   THE   FLOOD. 

Storms  may  come — and  wrecks  too ;  but  at  any  rate  he 
is  a  brave  sailor,  ready  to  fight  with  destiny.  He  has 
not  allowed  himself  to  rot  stranded  on  a  lee  shore ;  he 
has  taken  the  tide  at  the  flood,  and,  wheresoever  it  bears 
him,  he  has  done  his  best. 


VICTIMS  AND  VICTIMIZERS 


VICTIMS  AND  VICTIMIZED, 


THE  "  noble  array  of  martyrs  "  sounds  very  fine ;  and 
how  many  people  are,  or  believe  they  are,  of  that  good- 
ly company!  Whether  a  large  proportion  might  not 
wholesomely  be  deposed  thence,  and  relegated  to  the 
uninteresting  ranks  of  mere  victims,  feeble  and  coward- 
ly, I  should  not  like  to  say.  But  the  pride  of  martyr- 
dom consoles  them  so  much  in  their  sufferings  that  it 
would  be  almost  a  pity  to  deprive  them  thereof,  or  to 
suggest  that  the  true  martyr  carefully  covers  his  hair- 
shirt  with  a  velvet  gown,  and  presents  a  placid  and  even 
cheerful  countenance  to  all  beholders,  in  spite  of  the 
vulture  gnawing  at  his  heart. 

It  is  for  the  benefit  of  these  vultures,  and  with  the 
hope  of  strangling  some  of  them,  that  this  chapter  is 
written. 

In  the  first  place,  I  would  like  to  ask  how  much  ought 
we  to  allow  ourselves  to  suffer?  I  mean,  not  the  inevi- 
table sufferings  sent,  or  permitted,  by  God,  but  those 
inflicted  on  us  by  our  fellow-mortals — by  far  the  most 
numerous,  and  the  hardest  to  bear. 


22  VICTIMS   AND   VICTIMIZEES. 

Christianity  bases  a  great  deal  of  its  theology  on  the 
doctrine  of  non-resistance.  "If  a  man  smite  thee  on 
the  one  cheek,  offer  him  the  other ;  if  he  take  away  thy 
cloak,  let  him  have  thy  coat  also."  A  great  mystery — 
so  great  that  I  cannot  help  believing  translators  must  be 
at  fault  somehow,  or  (if  it  be  not  heresy  to  say  this)  that 
Christ's  disciples  in  repeating  their  Master's  words  some- 
what misconstrued  them. 

It  may  be  also  that  the  command  "Kesist  not  evil" 
is  only  meant  for  an  age  when  evil  was  so  rampant  that 
it  could  not  be  resisted  except  by  the  Divine  teaching 
of  self-sacrifice,  which  was  then  so  new,  and  so  startling- 
ly  opposite  to  anything  the  heathen  world  had  ever 
known.  Still,  the  malediction  "  Offences  must  come, 
but  woe  be  to  them  through  whom  the  offence  cometh  " 
is  sufficiently  strong  to  warrant  us  in  offering  a  word  or 
two  on  the  other  side — the  side  of  the  victims  against 
the  victimizers. 

Most  aggravating,  to  use  no  higher  term,  is  it  some- 
times to  notice  how  the  good  of  this  world  are  oppressed 
by  the  bad,  the  cheerful  and  amiable  by  the  sour-tem- 
pered, the  unselfish  by  the  selfish,  the  careful  by  the 
careless  or  prodigal.  Not  a  week,  not  a  day  passes  that 
the  more  generous  of  us  do  not  long  to  rescue  some  of 
these  poor  victims  out  of  the  hands  of  their  tormentors, 
acting  St.  George  and  the  Dragon  over  again,  or  becom- 
ing a  modern  Perseus  for  a  new  Andromeda.  Only, 


VICTIMS   AND   VICTIMIZERS.  ZO 

alas !  the  sufferers  are  seldom  young  and  attractive,  and 
the  persecutors  often  are  so. 

Take,  for  instance,  the  case  of  nervous  invalids.  These 
are  not  seldom  the  most  pathetically  fascinating  of  wom- 
en, whom,  for  a  time  at  least,  all  the  men  of  their  ac- 
quaintance are  delighted  to  serve ;  who  frequently  win 
excellent,  devoted  husbands,  and  make  slaves  and  mar- 
tyrs of  them  for  life. 

The  subtle  charm  of  helplessness  dominates  most 
strongly  over  the  largest  and  most  generous  of  natures. 
A  truly  noble  man  unconsciously  protects,  and  loves 
that  which  he  protects.  The  extent  to  which  such  a 
one  is  victimized  by  a  weak,  selfish,  egotistical  invalid, 
or  quasi-invalid — for  the  real  invalids  are  sometimes  the 
most  patient,  unselfish,  and  unexacting  of  human  beings 
— is  all  but  incredible  and  wholly  pitiable. 

More  so,  I  think,  than  when  the  case  is  reversed,  be- 
cause it  seems  woman's  natural  metier  to  be  somebody's 
slave  all  her  life.  But  with  men,  who  have,  and  ought 
to  have,  a  wider  horizon,  a  larger  duty — including  not 
only  the  family,  but  the  world — it  is,  even  granting  all 
the  tenderness  due  from  the  strong  to  the  weak,  rather 
hard  to  be  tied  to  the  triumphant  chariot-wheels — i.  e., 
the  Bath-chair — of  a  charming,  interesting,  but  exigeante 
valetudinarian  to  whom  the  one  golden  rule  for  inva- 
lids, "  Suffer  as  silently,  and  make  others  suffer  as  little, 
as  you  can,"  is  a  dead  letter. 


24  VICTIMS   AND    VICTIMIZEES. 

Possibly  these  victimizers,  being  also  sufferers,  should 
be  handled  more  gently  than  another  sort,  who  have  no 
excuse  at  all. 

Most  families  possess,  near  or  remote,  some  member 
who  is  a  perpetual  "  root  of  bitterness  springing  up  to 
trouble  them."  Not  necessarily  a  wicked,  but  a  decid- 
edly unpleasant  person;  weak  in  many  points,  but  ex- 
cellent at  fault-finding  and  mischief-making;  always 
getting  into  hot  water  and  dragging  other  people  after ; 
in  disposition  touchy,  exacting,  or  morose.  In  short, 
the  sort  of  individual  whom  all  would  gladly  escape 
from,  but,  being  unfortunately  "  one  of  the  family," 
they,  the  family,  are  bound  to  put  up  with,  and  do  so 
with  a  patience  that  is  almost  miraculous.  Outsiders, 
too,  for  their  sakes,  imitate  them,  treating  the  obnoxious 
party  with  preternatural  politeness — "making  love  to 
the  devil,"  as  I  have  heard  it  put,  and  propitiating  him 
or  her  with  much  greater  care  than  would  be  necessary 
towards  the  more  agreeable  relatives.  For  peace'  sake, 
all  sorts  of  inconveniences  are  borne,  all  manner  of  lies 
— white  lies — told,  until  life  becomes,  when  not  an  act- 
ual endurance,  a  long  hypocrisy. 

Now,  is  this  right  ?  Would  it  not  be  much  more 
right  for  the  victims  to  take  up  arms  against  the  vic- 
timizer,  and  say  plainly,  "  You  are  an  intolerable  nui- 
sance. It  is  not  fair  that  the  many  should  suffer  for 
one.  The  family — a  whole  family — shall  not  be  made 


VICTIMS   AND   VICTIMIZER8.  25 

miserable  by  you  any  longer.  You  must  either  mend 
your  ways  or  you  must  be  got  rid  of,  somehow." 

Ay,  and  this  should  be  done  —  in  the  kindest  and 
most  prudent  way,  of  course,  but  decidedly  done.  If 
all  the  "  roots  of  bitterness "  we  know  of  were  "grubbed 
up,"  or  at  least  safely  planted  out,  what  a  blessing  it 
would  be !  Many  people,  intolerable  at  home,  are  quite 
pleasant  and  charming  abroad,  being  forced  then  to  ex- 
ercise with  strangers  the  self-control  that  they  did  not 
care  to  use  in  the  bosom  of  their  family.  Surely  some 
new  philanthropist  might  invent  asylums  for  the  ill- 
tempered,  the  sulky,  the  malicious,  and  egotistical : 
egotism  is  always  a  kind  of  madness,  and  often  the 
forerunner  of  it.  At  any  rate,  surely  every  family 
ought  to  do  its  best  to  get  rid  of  any  obnoxious  ele- 
ment which  torments  and  harms  the  rest.  Or,  failing 
that,  it  ought  to  do  as  the  bees  in  a  hive,  and  cover  up 
the  corrupting  nuisance  with  the  smooth  wax  of  polite 
but  remorseless  indifference,  till  its  injuriousness  is  neu- 
tralized as  much  as  possible.  If  we  could  but  convince 
tender-conscienced  folk — apt  to  be  ridden  over  rough- 
shod by  those  who  have  no  conscience  at  all — that,  the 
incurable  evils  of  life  being  so  great,  to  sit  down  and 
tamely  endure  a  curable  evil  is  worse  than  foolish — 
wrong ! 

I  do  not  include  among  these  nuisances  the  merely 
bad-tempered,  because,  anomaly  as  it  sounds,  many  bad- 
2 


26  VICTIMS   AND   VICTIMIZERS. 

tempered  people  are  exceeding  good.  Their  besetting 
sin  is  often  a  purely  physical  thing,  arising  from  nervous 
irritability  or  other  controllable  physical  cause,  which 
produces  a  general  malaise  that  causes  them  to  suffer  in 
themselves  quite  as  they  make  others  suffer.  If  they 
have  the  sense  to  see  this  and  rule  themselves  accord- 
ingly, they  deserve  sympathy,  even  in  midst  of  con- 
demnation. But  if  they  say,  "  I  can't  help  it.  It's  me, 
and  you  must  put  up  with  it !"  or,  still  worse,  if,  like 
drunkards  and  madmen,  who  are  always  accusing  other 
people  of  being  mad  or  drunk,  they  imagine  everybody 
is  in  league  against  them,  and  accuse  cheerful,  innocent 
hearts  of  being  haunted  by  the  ugly  black  shadows  that 
so  often  cloud  their  own,  then  let  us  waste  on  them  no 
pity — they  merit  none.  We  cannot  cure  them,  we  must 
endure  them ;  still,  let  us  at  least  escape  from  them,  and 
help  others  to  escape,  in  every  possible  way. 

It  is  a  hard  thing  to  say,  but  some  of  the  cruellest  of 
victimizers  are  the  people  who  are  supposed  to  be  de- 
votedly attached  to  their  victims.  As  perhaps  they  are, 
but  not  in  a  right  way.  Instead  of  a  safe  and  tender 
embrace,  they  clutch  at  these  unfortunates  with  the 
strangling  clasp  of  an  octopus,  fancying  they  love  them, 
when  in  fact  they  only  love  themselves.  Many  people 
like  well  enough  to  be  loved ;  they  keenly  enjoy  the 
honor  and  glory  of  showing  to  the  world  that  they  are 
loved.  But  of  love  itself,  and  of  loving — I  give  the 


VICTIMS    AND   VICTIMIZEKS.  27 

word  its  widest  interpretation — they  are  absolutely  in- 
capable. That  deep,  faithful,  reverent  passion  •  which 
can  project  itself  out  of  itself  and  devote  its  whole  pow- 
ers, silently  or  openly,  to  the  service  of  another — of  this 
they  have  not  the  remotest  idea.  Jealous,  exacting ; 
demanding  sacrifices  and  making  none ;  forever  think- 
ing, not  "Do  I  love  you?"  but  "Do  you  love  me?" 
and  always  suspecting  that  love  to  be  less  than  they  de- 
serve— such  "  lovers,"  be  they  men  or  women — and  I 
must  confess  that  they  are  oftenest  women — are  the 
greatest  nuisances  that  their  luckless  objects  of  attach- 
ment can  be  plagued  with.  Often  they  force  their  vic- 
tims to  wish  ardently  that,  instead  of  loving,  they  would 
take  to  hatingj  or  at  any  rate  to  wholesome  indifference. 
People  write  of  the  torments  of  unrequited  love ;  but 
a  far  greater  torment  is  it  to  be  pursued  by  the  egotisti- 
cal affection  of  some  one,  whether  friend  or  relative, 
who  worries  your  life  out  with  fussy  anxiety  over  your 
health  ;  who,  under  color  of  aiding  you,  meddles  fatally 
in  all  your  affairs,  and,  while  calling  himself  (or  herself) 
your  dearest  friend,  tries  to  separate  you  from  every 
other  friend  you  have.  Surely  no  moment  of  pity,  or 
even  gratitude  for  unasked  favors,  ought  to  prevent 
such  victims  from  resolutely  throwing  off  the  victirni- 
zers  and  escaping  from  their  affectionate  clutches  by 
every  means  that  Christian  charity  allows.  There  are  a 
number  of  women,  old  and  young,  who  go  about  the 


28  VICTIMS   AND   VICTIMIZEES. 

world  bestowing  their  unoccupied  hearts  upon  their 
own  sex  or  the  other,  rushing  into  vehement  sentimen- 
tal friendships  or  loves  which  are  as  trying  to  one  side 
as  ridiculous  on  the  other.  We  constantly  see  some 
kindly,  respectable  Sindbad  staggering  on  under  the  en- 
forced embrace  of  a  devoted  friend  or  attached  relative 
— a  veritable  Old  Man  of  the  Sea,  unto  whom  we  long 
to  say,  "  Throw  him  off,  and  let  him  find  his  own  feet 
and  manage  his  own  affairs !"  as  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten 
he  would.  People  can  quite  well  walk  alone,  only  it  is 
so  much  easier  to  be  carried. 

Besides  the  compelled,  inevitable  victims,  it  is  sad  to 
see  what  a  number  of  well-meaning  folk  tacitly,  and 
most  unnecessarily,  victimize  themselves.  These  are 
the  people  who  are  always  afraid  of  offending  others ; 
who  imagine  that  somebody  will  expect  something — an 
invitation,  a  visit,  a  letter,  and  be  much  annoyed  at  not 
getting  it.  Consequently,  they  are  forever  doing  -things 
they  do  not  want  to  do,  for  fear  of  vexing  folk  who  are 
not  vexed  at  all ;  or  making  endless  apologies  to  people 
who  never  required  them,  who  perhaps  have  no  time  to 
think  about  either  the  thing  or  the  person,  and  it  was 
only  the  uneasy  egotism  of  the  other  individual  which 
supposed  they  did. 

For  the  dread  of  giving  offence,  like  the  habit  of 
taking  it,  springs  fully  as  often  from  self-esteem  as  from 
sensitiveness.  Vain,  self -engrossed  people  are  apt  to 


VICTIMS   AND   VICTIMIZEKS.  29 

exaggerate  the  importance  they  are  to  other  people,  and 
so  to  have  a  nervous  terror  of  offending  them  ;  whereas 
a  man  of  single  mind,  who  does  not  trouble  himself 
much  about  himself,  never  takes  offence,  and  is  there- 
fore not  apt  to  imagine  he  has  given  any.  He  goes 
straight  on,  turning  neither  to  the  right  nor  the  left — 
does  the  hest  thing,  so  far  as  he  sees  it,  and  the  kindly 
thing  whenever  it  lies  in  his  power ;  but  beyond  that  he 
does  not  afflict  himself  much  as  to  what  people  think  of 
him  or  expect  of  him.  If  they  expect  what  they  had  no 
right  to  expect,  exact  more  than  they  are  justified  in 
requiring — above  all,  take  offence  where  he  had  no  in- 
tention of  giving  any — then  he  altogether  refuses  to  be 
victimized.  He  may  make  no  great  stir  and  present 
no  obnoxious  front — indeed,  probably  he  considers  the 
matter  too  small  to  fight  about  —  but  the  victimizes 
can  make  nothing  of  him.  He  calmly  goes  on  his  way, 
"  worrying  "  neither  himself  nor  his  neighbor.  Life  is 
too  short  for  tempests  in  teapots,  or  indeed  for  any  oth- 
er unnecessary  storm :  we  must  just  do  our  duty,  and 
let  it  alone. 

But  in  this  great  question  of  doing  one's  duty,  I  think 
we  cannot  too  sharply  draw  the  line  between  what  real- 
ly is  our  duty  and  what  other  people  choose  to  suppose 
it  is — probably  each  person  having  a  different  opinion 
on  the  subject.  We  are  apt  to  start  in  life  with  a  grand 
idea  of  self-sacrifice  and  an  heroic  sense  of  the  joy  of  it. 


30  VICTIMS   AND   VICTIMIZEBS. 

Ay,  and  there  is  a  joy,  deeper  than  the  selfish  can  ever 
understand,  delight  keener  than  the  pleasure-loving  can 
ever  know,  in  spending  and  being  spent  for  our  best-be- 
loved, or  even  in  the  mere  abstract  help  of  the  good 
and  defence  of  the  miserable — that  "  enthusiasm  of  hu- 
manity," as  a  great  writer  called  it,  which  is  at  the  heart 
of  all  religion,  the  love  of  man  springing  from  the  love 
of  God. 

Yet,  alas !  erelong  we  come  to  learn  that  there  are 
sacrifices  which  turn  out  to  be  sheer  mistakes,  ruining 
ourselves  and  profiting  nobody ;  that  unselfishness,  car- 
ried to  an  extreme,  only  makes  other  people  selfish ; 
that  "  the  fear  of  man  bringeth  a  snare ;"  and  that  to 
embitter  one's  whole  life  through  a  weak  dread  of  of- 
fending this  person,  who  has  no  right  to  be  offended,  or 
of  not  doing  one's  duty  to  that  person,  who  has  the  very 
smallest  claim  to  any  duty  at  all,  is — well !  I  will  not 
call  it  wrong,  because  it  is  a  failing  that  leans  to  virtue's 
side ;  but  it  is  simply  silly. 

To  withstand  evil  is  as  necessary  as  to  do  good.  And 
if  we  withstand  it  for  others,  why  not  for  ourselves? 
Every  time  that  we  weakly  suffer  a  needless  wrong,  we 
abet  and  encourage  the  inflictor  in  perpetrating  it.  By 
becoming  passive  and  uncomplaining  victims,  we  tacitly 
injure  the  victimizes.  They  can  but  kill  our  bodies,  as 
they  sometimes  do  by  most  amiable  and  unconscious 
murder,  slow  and  sure ;  but  we  may  kill  their  souls  by 


VICTIMS   AND   VICTIMIZERS.  31 

allowing  them,  unresisted,  to  go  on  in  some  course  of 
conduct  which  must  result  in  their  gradual  deterioration 
and  moral  death.  It  may  be  a  theory,  startling  enough 
to  some  people,  but  warranted  by  a  good  long  observa- 
tion of  life,  if  I  say  that  I  believe  one  half  of  the  self- 
sacrifices  of  this  world — the  endless  instances  we  see  in 
which  the  good  are  immolated  to  the  bad,  the  weak  to 
the  strong,  the  self-forgetting  to  the  exacting  and  tyran- 
nical— spring  not  from  heroism,  but  cowardice. 

"We  have  not  too  many  angels  in  this  world,  and  we 
know  little  enough  of  the  angelic  host  above ;  but  the 
angel  who  always  most  attracted  my  youthful  imagina- 
tion was  St.  Michael,  the  strong,  the  warlike,  the  wrestler 
with  the  powers  of  evil.  That  we  should  so  wrestle 
with  evil,  even  to  our  last  breath,  is  as  necessary  as  that 
we  should  cling  to  good.  And,  lovely  as  Love  may  be, 
there  is  another,  a  blindfold  Woman  with  balance  and 
scales,  still  more  beautiful.  Justice  is  a  great  deal  more 
difficult  to  find  than  Mercy,  and  rarer. 

And  Justice  would  say  to  these  victims,  hopeless  vic- 
tims many,  for  they  are  not  only  too  weak  to  struggle 
against,  but  they  actually  love  their  victimizers  :  Pause 
and  consider  whether  there  is  not  something  beyond 
and  above  either  love  or  hatred,  egoism  or  altruism — 
that  sense  of  simple  right  and  wrong  which,  when  not 
corrupted  or  set  aside,  is  inherent  in  every  human  soul. 
Fear  God,  and  have  no  other  fear.  Serve  God,  and 


32  VICTIMS    AND   VICTIMIZEKS. 

every  other  service  will  sink  into  its  right  proportions. 
"  For  one  is  your  Master,  even  Christ ;  and  all  ye  are 
brethren." 

And,  if  we  really  are  brethren,  let  us  try  to  be  neither 
victims  nor  victimizers. 


"ODD"  PEOPLE 


ODD"   PEOPLE. 


"  For  ye  suffer  fools  gladly." 

YES,  because  we  recognize  them  as  fools ;  and  there 
is  in  our  human  nature  a  certain  Pharisaical  element 
which  hugs  itself  in  the  thought  that  we  are  not  "as 
other  men  are."  Therefore  we  regard  them  and  their 
folly  with  a  self-contented  and  not  unkindly  pity.  We 
understand  them  and  put  up  with  them,  and  it  soothes 
our  vanity  to  feel  how  very  much  we  are  above  them. 

But  these  others,  the  "  odd  "  people,  are  somewhat 
different.  We  do  not  understand  them ;  they  keep  us 
always  in  an  uneasy  uncertainty  as  to  whether  we  ought 
to  respect  or  despise  them ;  whether  they  are  inferior 
or  superior  to  ourselves.  Consequently  we  are  to  them 
often  unjust,  and  always  untender.  They  puzzle  us, 
these  people  whom  we  designate  as  "  unlike  other  peo- 
ple "  (that  is,  unlike  ourselves  and  our  charming  and 
highly  respectable  neighbors) ;  whose  motives  we  do 
not  comprehend,  and  whose  actions  we  can  never  quite 
calculate  upon ;  who  are  apparently  a  law  unto  them- 


36  "ODD"  PEOPLE. 

selves,  independent  of  us ;  who  do  not  look  up  to  us, 
nay,  we  rather  suspect  they  look  down  upon  us,  or  are 
at  least  calmly  indifferent  to  us,  and  consequently  more 
irritating  a  thousand  times  than  the  obvious  and  con- 
fessed fools. 

An  odd  person  !  How  often  one  hears  the  term,  and 
generally  in  a  tone  of  depreciation,  as  if  it  implied  a 
misfortune  or  a  disgrace,  or  both !  Which  it  does,  when 
the  oddity  is  not  natural,  but  artificial,  as  is  frequently 
the  case.  Of  all  forms  of  egotism,  that  of  being  inten- 
tionally peculiar  is  the  most  pitiful.  Real  eccentricity 
is  always  rather  a  misfortune ;  assumed  eccentricity  is  a 
folly — if  not  a  crime.  The  man  who  is  always  putting 
himself  in  an  attitude,  physical  or  moral,  in  order  that 
the  world  may  stare  at  him ;  striving  to  make  himself 
different  from  other  folks  under  the  delusion  that  dif- 
ference constitutes  superiority  ;  such  a  man  merits,  and 
generally  gets,  only  contempt.  He  who,  not  from  con- 
sciousness, but  conceit,  sets  himself  against  the  tide  of 
public  opinion  deserves  to  be  swept  away  by  it,  as  most 
commonly  he  is,  in  a  whirl  of  just  derision. 

Quite  different  is  the  case  of  one  who  is  neither  a 
fool  nor  an  egotist,  but  merely  "odd,"  born  such,  or 
made  such  by  inevitable  and  often  rather  sad  circum- 
stances and  habits  of  life.  And  it  is  for  these,  worthy 
sometimes  of  much  sympathy,  respect,  and  tenderness, 
never  certainly  of  contempt,  that  I  wish  to  say  a  word. 


"  ODD  "    PEOPLE.  37 

I  know  a  family  who,  having  possessed  a  tolerable 
amount  of  brains  in  itself  for  more  than  one  generation, 
had  an  overweening  admiration  for  the  same,  and  got 
into  a  habit  of  calling  all  commonplace,  ordinary  people 
"  chuckie-stanes."  Every  Scotch  schoolboy  knows  the 
word.  It  describes  precisely  those  people  exactly  like 
everybody  else,  whom  one  is  constantly  meeting  in  so- 
ciety, and  without  whom  society  could  not  get  on  at 
all,  for  they  make  a  sort  of  comfortable  background  to 
the  other  people,  who  are  not  like  everybody  else. 

But  in  all  surface  judgments  and  unkindly  criticisms 
must  be  a  degree  of  injustice.  No  one  is  really  a 
"  chuckie-stane."  Every  human  being  has  his  own  in- 
dividuality, small  or  large,  his  salient  and  interesting 
points,  quite  distinct  from  his  neighbors,  if  only  his 
neighbors  will  take  the  trouble  to  find  them  out.  One 
often  hears  the  remark,  especially  from  the  young,  that 
such  a  person  is  "a  bore,"  and  such  a  house  is  "the 
dullest  house  possible."  For  myself,  I  can  only  say,  I 
wonder  where  the  "  dull  houses  "  are,  and  where  the 
"  bores  "  go  to  ?  since  I  never  succeed  in  finding  either. 
Only  once  I  remember  a  feeling  of  despair  in  having  for 
two  mortal  hours  the  companionship  of  a  not  brilliant 
young  farmer;  but  I  plunged  him  at  once  into  sheep 
and  turnips,  when  he  became  so  enthusiastic  and  intel- 
ligent that  I  gained  from  him  information  on  agricultu- 
ral subjects  which  will  last  me  to  the  end  of  my  days. 


38  "  ODD  "    PEOPLE. 

Very  few  people  are  absolutely  uninteresting,  except 
those  that  are  unreal.  A  fool  is  bearable,  a  humbug 
never. 

Now  "  odd  "  people,  whatever  they  are,  are  certainly 
not  humbugs.  Nor  are  they  necessarily  bad  people ; 
quite  the  contrary.  Society,  much  as  it  dislikes  them, 
is  forced  to  allow  this.  Many  men  and  women  whom 
others  stigmatize  as  "  so  very  peculiar  "  are,  the  latter 
often  confess,  not  worse,  but  much  better,  than  them- 
selves ;  capable  of  acts  of  heroism  which  they  know 
they  would  shrink  from,  and  of  endurance  which  they 
would  much  rather  admire  than  imitate.  But  then 
they  are  such  odd  people ! 

How  ?     In  what  does  their  oddity  consist  ? 

Generally,  their  detractors  cannot  exactly  say.  The 
sin  mostly  resolves  itself  into  certain  peculiarities  of 
manner  or  quaintnesses  of  dress ;  an  original  way  of 
looking  at  things,  and  a  fearless  fashion  of  judging 
them  ;  independence  of,  or  indifference  to,  the  innumer- 
able small  nothings  which  make  the  sum  of  what  the 
world  considers  everything  worth  living  for,  worth  dy- 
ing for,  but  which  these  odd  people  do  not  consider  of 
any  importance  at  all.  Therefore  the  world  is  offended 
with  them,  and  condemns  them  with  a  severity  scarcely 
commensurate  to  their  deserts. 

Especially  in  things  most  apparent  outside  —  their 
manners  and  their  clothing. 


"ODD"  PEOPLE.  39 

Now,  far  be  it  from  me  to  aver  that  either  of  these 
is  of  no  consequence.  Dress  especially,  as  the  "outward 
and  visible  sign  of  an  inward  and  spiritual  grace,"  is  of 
the  utmost  consequence.  Those  who,  by  neglecting  it, 
make  themselves  singular  in  the  eyes  of  strangers,  or 
unpleasant  in  those  of  friends,  are  strongly  to  blame. 

But  not  less  so  are  the  people  who  wear  out  their  own 
lives  and  those  of  others  by  fidgeting  over  trifles ;  be- 
moaning a  misfitting  coat  or  an  unbecoming  bonnet,  and 
behaving  as  if  the  world  had  come  to  an  end  on  account 
of  a  speck  on  a  boot  or  a  small  rent  in  a  gown.  There 
is  a  proportion  in  things.  Those  who  worry  themselves 
to  death,  and  others  too,  over  minute  wrongs  and  errors, 
commit  a  still  greater  wrong  and  overlook  a  much  more 
serious  error.  How  many  of  us  would  prefer  to  dine 
upon  potatoes  and  salt,  and  dress  in  a  sack  with  sleeve- 
holes,  rather  than  be  ceaselessly  tormented,  with  the  best 
of  intentions,  about  what  we  eat,  drink,  and  put  on? 
"  Is  not  the  life  more  than  meat,  and  the  body  than 
raiment  ?" 

Yes ;  but  society  must  have  its  meat  and  also  its  rai- 
ment, and  that  in  the  best  and  most  decorous  form 
which  the  general  opinion  of  its  members  considers  as 
such.  To  set  one's  self  rampantly  against  this  code  of 
unwritten  law  is,  when  not  wrong,  simply  foolish.  The 
obnoxious  plebeian  who  insisted  on  vindicating  that  "  a 
man's  a  man  for  a'  that,"  by  presenting  himself  at  a  pa- 


40  "ODD"  PEOPLE. 

trician  dinner  in  rough  morning  garb ;  the  conceited 
young  artist  who  appeared  so  picturesque  —  and  so 
snobbish — at  a  full-dress  assembly  in  his  velvet  paint- 
ing-coat, were  certainly  odd  people ;  but  their  oddity 
was  pure  silliness — neither  grand  nor  heroic  in  the  least. 
Nor,  I  must  say,  can  I  consider  much  wiser  the  ladies, 
young  and  old,  whom  I  see  yearly  at  private  views, 
dressed  not  like  the  ordinary  gentlewomen  of  the  day, 
but  just  as  if  they  had  "  stepped  out  of  a  picture ;"  only 
the  pictures  they  choose  to  step  out  of  are  not  always 
the  most  beautiful  —  often  the  most  bizarre  of  their 
kind. 

As  a  general  rule,  any  style  of  dress,  whether  an  ex- 
aggeration of  the  fashion  of  the  time  or  a  divergence 
from  it,  which  is  so  different  from  other  people's  as  to 
make  them  turn  round  and  look  at  it,  is  a  mistake. 
This  sort  of  eccentricity  I  do  not  defend.  But  I  do  de- 
fend the  right  of  every  man  and  woman  to  dress  him- 
self and  herself  in  their  own  way — that  is,  the  way 
which  they  find  most  comfortable,  suitable,  and  tasteful, 
provided  it  is  not  glaringly  obnoxious  to  the  community 
at  large. 

A  gentleman  who,  hating  the  much-abused  but  stift- 
endured  chimney-pot  hat,  persists  in  going  through  life 
with  his  noble  brows  shaded  by  a  wide-awake ;  a  lady 
who  has  manfully  resisted  deformity  in  the  shape  of 
tight  stays  and  high-heeled  boots,  has  held  out  success- 


"ODD"  PEOPLE.  41 

fully  against  hoop-petticoats  and  dresses  tied  up  like 
umbrellas,  who  has  declined  equally  to  smother  her  fresh 
young  face  under  a  coal-scuttle  bonnet,  or  to  bare  her 
poor  old  cheeks  to  sun  and  wind  and  critical  observation 
by  a  small  stringless  hat,  good  neither  for  use  nor  orna- 
ment— such  people  may  be  set  down  as  "odd;"  but 
they  are  neither  culpable  nor  contemptible.  They  do 
what  they  consider  right  and  best  for  themselves ;  and 
what  possible  harm  do  they  do  to  other  people  ? 

Besides — though  this  is  no  excuse  for  all  oddities,  but 
it  is  for  some — the  chances  are  that  they  are  people  no 
longer  young,  who  have  learned  the  true  value  of  life 
and  the  true  proportions  of  things  much  better  than 
their  accusers  or  criticisers.  Possibly,  too,  they  are 
busy  people,  who  have  many  other  things  to  think  of 
than  themselves  and  their  clothes.  It  is  the  young,  the 
idle,  the  small-minded,  who  are  most  prone  to  vex  them- 
selves about  petty  and  outside  things.  As  years  ad- 
vance and  interests  widen,  we  see  with  larger  eyes,  and 
refuse  to  let  minute  evils  destroy  in  us  and  in  those  dear 
to  us  that  equal  mind  which,  accepting  life  as  a  whole, 
in  all  its  earnestness  and  reality,  its  beauty  and  sadness 
combined,  weighs  calmly  and  strikes  bravely  the  balance 
of  good  and  ill. 

Perfection  even  in. the  humblest  and  commonest  de- 
tails is  to  be  striven  after,  but  not  to  the  sacrifice  of 
higher  and  better  things.  I  have  known  a  young  lady 


42  "ODD"  PEOPLE. 

sulk  through  half  a  ball  because  her  dress  was  not  quite 
as  tight-fitting  as  the  mode  exacted  ;  and  an  elderly  gen- 
tleman make  a  happy  family  party  miserable  for  a  whole 
dinner-time  because  there  chanced  to  be  too  much  salt 
in  the  soup.  Such  terribly  "  even"  folk  as  these  drive 
one  to  appreciate  those  that  are  "  odd." 

The  world  still  contains  many  who  persist  in  tithing 
mint,  anise,  and  cummin,  and  neglecting  "  wisdom,  jus- 
tice, and  the  weightier  matters  of  the  law."  It  is  they 
who  are  hardest  upon  the  odd  people.  Their  minds,  ab- 
sorbed in  the  mint,  anise,  and  cummin  of  existence,  can- 
not take  in  the  condition,  intellectual  and  moral,  of  a 
person  upon  whom  those  "  weightier  matters  "  weigh  so 
heavily  that  he  is  prone  to  overlook  lesser  matters.  He 
objects  to  be  tied  and  bound  by  certain  narrow  social 
laws,  which,  indeed,  being  of  no  real  importance,  he  re- 
fuses to  consider  laws  at  all.  Therefore  he  is  set  down 
as  a  law-breaker,  laughed  at  as  eccentric,  or  abused  as 
conceited,  when  probably  there  is  in  him  not  an  atom  of 
either  conceit  or  egotism,  and  his  only  eccentricity  con- 
sists in  the  fact  that  his  own  large  nature  cannot  com- 
prehend the  exceeding  smallness  of  other  people's.  He 
gives  Tom,  Dick,  and  Harry  credit  for  the  same  quick 
sympathies,  high  aims,  and  earnest  purposes  that  he  has 
himself,  and  is  altogether  puzzled  to  find  in  them  noth- 
ing of  the  kind.  They  can  no  more  understand  him 
than  if  he  spoke  to  them  in  Chinese.  They  only  think 


"  ODD  "    PEOPLE.  43 

him  "  a  rather  odd  sort  of  person  " — smile  at  him  and 
turn  away.  So  he  "  slmts  up  " — to  use  a  phrase  out  of 
that  elegant  slang  which  they  are  far  more  adepts  at 
than  he  ;  and  Tom,  Dick,  and  Harry  hate  him  forever- 
more,  with  the  relentless  animosity  of  small  souls  tow- 
ards another  soul  into  whose  depths  they  cannot  in  the 
least  penetrate,  but  sometimes  suspect  it  to  be  a  little 
deeper  and  larger  than  their  own. 

And  occasionally,  rather  to  their  annoyance,  the  fact 
is  discovered,  even  by  the  purblind  world. 

Take,  for  instance,  that  very  "  odd  "  person  —  Don 
Quixote — whom  successive  generations  have  laughed  at 
as  a  mere  fool ;  but  this  generation  begins  to  see  in  the 
poor  old  knight  a  pathetic  type  of  that  ideal  Christian 
chivalry  which  spends  itself  in  succoring  the  weak  and 
oppressed,  which  believes  the  best  of  every  human  be- 
ing, and  is  only  led  astray  by  its  expectation  of  finding 
in  others  the  purity,  truthfulness,  honor,  and  unselfish- 
ness which  are  to  itself  as  natural  as  the  air  it  breathes. 
But  they  are  not  the  natural  atmosphere  of  society, 
which  accordingly  sets  down  those  who  practise  these 
virtues  —  who  have  a  high  ideal  of  life,  and  strive 
through  endless  difficulties  and  deficiencies  to  carry  it 
out — as  "  Quixotic,"  or,  at  best,  rather  "  odd,"  people. 
Yet,  is  it  not  they  who  influence  the  world  ?  who  do  a 
daring  act  of  generosity  or  heroism,  while  others  are 
only  thinking  about  it;  and  perpetrate  philanthropic 


44  "ODD"  PEOPLE. 

follies  with  such  success  that  those  who  would  utterly 
have  scouted  them,  had  they  failed,  now  praise  them  as 
possessing  the  utmost  wisdom  and  most  admirable  com- 
mon-sense ? 

Again,  many  are  odd  simply  because  they  are  inde- 
pendent. That  weak  gregariousness  which  is  content 
to  "  follow  the  multitude  to  do  evil "  (or  good,  as  it 
happens,  and  often  the  chances  are  pretty  equal  both 
ways)  is  not  possible  to  them.  They  must  think,  speak, 
and  act  for  themselves.  And  there  is  something  in  their 
natures  which  makes  them  a  law  unto  themselves,  with- 
out breaking  any  other  rational  laws.  The  bondage  of 
conventionality — a  stronghold  and  safeguard  to  feebler 
folk — is  to  them  unnecessary  and  irksome.  They  mean 
to  do  the  right,  and  they  do  it,  but  they  cannot  submit 
to  the  trammels  of  mere  convenience  or  expediency. 
Being  quite  sure  of  their  own  minds,  and  quite  strong 
enough  to  carry  out  their  own  purposes,  they  prefer  to 
do  so,  without  troubling  themselves  very  much  about 
what  others  think  of  them.  Having  a  much  larger 
bump  of  self-esteem  or  self-respect  than  of  love  of  ap- 
probation, outside  opinion  does  not  weigh  with  them  as 
it  does  with  weaker  people,  and  they  go  calmly  upon  their 
way  without  knowing  or  asking  what  are  their  neigh- 
bors' feelings  towards  them. 

Therefore  their  neighbors,  seeing  actions  but  not  mo- 
tives, and  being  as  ignorant  of  results  as  they  are  of 


"  ODD  "    PEOPLE.  4:5 

causes,  often  pronounce  upon  them  the  rashest  judg- 
ments, denouncing  the  quiet  indifference  of  true  great- 
ness as  petty  vanity,  and  the  naturalness  of  a  pure  heart 
and  simple  mind  as  mere  affectation.  For  to  the  world- 
ly unworldliness  is  so  incredible,  to  the  bad  goodness  is 
so  impossible,  that  they  will  believe  anything  sooner 
than  believe  in  either.  Any  one  whose  ideal  of  life  is 
above  the  ordinary  standard,  and  who  persists  in  carry- 
ing it  out  after  a  fashion  incomprehensible  to  society  in 
general,  is  sure  to  be  denounced  by  society  as  "  singu- 
lar " — or  worse.  . 

It  always  was  so,  and  always  will  be.  That  excellent 
Italian  gentleman — I  forget  his  name — who  felt  it  nec- 
essary to  apologize  for  Michael  Angelo's  manners,  doubt- 
lessly considered  the  old  sculptor  as  an  exceedingly 
"  odd "  person.  Odder  still  the  man  must  have  been 
thought  by  many  an  elegant  Florentine,  when  for  some 
mere  crotchet  about  the  abolition  of  the  republic  he 
abruptly  quitted  Florence  and  all  his  advantages  there; 
nor  ever  returned,  even  though  leaving  unfinished  those 
works  which  still  remain  unfinished  in  the  Mausoleum 
of  the  Medici — monuments  of  the  obstinacy,  or  consci- 
entiousness, or  whatever  you  like  to  call  it,  of  a  mere 
artist,  who  set  his  individual  opinion  and  will  in  oppo- 
sition to  the  highest  power  in  the  land. 

Poor  old  fellow,  with  his  grim,  saturnine  face  and 
broken  nose  !  How  very  "  peculiar  "  he  must  have  ap- 


46  "ODD"  PEOPLE. 

peared  to  his  contemporaries !  One  wonders  if  any  one, 
even  Vittoria  Colonna,  had  the  sense  to  see  into  the 
deep  heart  of  him,  with  all  its  greatness,  sadness,  and 
tenderness.  There  is  a  Pietsi  of  his  at  Genoa,  and 
another  at  St.  Peter's,  in  which  the  Virgin  Mother's 
gaze  upon  her  dead  Son,  lying  across  her  lap,  seems 
to  express  all  the  motherhood  and  all  the  grief  for 
the  dead  since  the  foundation  of  the  world.  And  yet 
the  sculptor  might  have  been  rough  enough,  and  ec- 
centric enough,  outside ;  and  his  friend  might  have 
been  quite  excusable  in  craving  pardon  for  his  "  man- 
ners." 

But  there  are  cases  in  which  eccentricity  requires 
more  than  apology  —  a  rebuke.  Those  peculiarities 
which  cause  people  to  become  a  nuisance  or  an  injury 
to  other  people,  such  as  unpunctnality  as  to  time,  neg- 
lect or  inaccuracy  in  business  matters,  and  in  all  those 
minor  necessities  or  courtesies  of  life  which  make  it 
smooth  and  sweet — these  failings,  from  whatever  cause 
they  spring,  ought,  even  if  pardoned,  not  to  be  par- 
doned without  protest.  They  are  wrong  in  themselves, 
and  no  argument  or  apology  will  make  them  right. 
The  man  who  breaks  his  appointments,  forgets  his 
social  engagements,  leaves  his  letters  unanswered  and 
promises  unfulfilled,  is  not  merely  an  "  odd,"  but  a  very 
erring,  individual ;  and,  if  he  shelters  himself  for  this 
breach  of  every-day  duties  and  courtesies  by  the  notion 


"  ODD  "    PEOPLE.  47 

that  he  is  superior  to  them,  deserves  not  excuses,  but 
sharp  condemnation. 

Not  so  the  peculiarities  which  harm  nobody,  and  are 
not  culpable  in  themselves,  though  they  may  seem  so  to 
the  "  chuckie-stanes  "  of  society,  who  are  afraid  of  any- 
thing which  differs  from  their  own  smooth  roundness. 
These  failings,  more  worthy  of  respectful  tenderness 
than  of  blame  or  contempt — who  can  tell  the  causes 
from  which  they  sprang?  What  human  being  knows 
so  entirely  his  fellow-creature's  inner  and  outer  life  that 
he  dare  pronounce  upon  crotchety  habits,  peculiar  man- 
ners of  dress,  eccentric  ways  of  life  or  modes  of  thought, 
which  may  have  resulted  from  the  unrecorded  but  never 
obliterated  history  of  years  ?  It  is  mostly  the  old  who 
are  "  odd ;"  and  when  the  young  laugh  at  them,  how  do 
they  know  that  they  are  not  laughing  at  what  may  be 
their  own  fate  one  day?  Many  a  peculiarity  may  have 
sprung  from  some  warped  nobility  of  nature,  many  an 
eccentricity  may  have  originated  in  the  silent  tragedy 
of  a  lifetime. 

Of  necessity, "  odd  "  people  are  solitary  people.  They 
may  dwell  in  a  crowd,  and  do  their  duty  in  a  large  fam- 
ily, but  neither  the  crowd  nor  the  family  understand 
them  ;  and  they  know  it.  They  do  not  always  feel  it — 
that  is,  not  to  the  extent  of  keen  suffering,  for  their  very 
"oddity"  makes  them  sufficient  to  themselves,  and  they 
have  ceased  to  expect  the  sympathy  which  they  know 


4:8  "ODD"  PEOPLE. 

they  cannot  get.  Still,  at  one  time,  probably,  they  did 
expect  it.  That  "  pernickity "  old  maid,  whom  her 
nieces  devoutly  hope  they  may  never  resemble,  may 
have  been  the  "odd"  one — but  the  thoughtful  and 
earnest  one  —  in  a  tribe  of  light-minded  sisters,  who 
danced  and  dressed,  flirted  and  married,  while  she — 
who  herself  might  possibly  have  wished  to  marry  once 
upon  a  time,  never  did  marry,  but  has  lived  her  lonely, 
self-contained  life  from  then  till  now,  and  will  live  it  to 
the  end.  That  man,  who  was  once  a  gay  young  bache- 
lor, and  is  now  a  grim  old  bachelor ;  not  positively  dis- 
agreeable, but  very  peculiar,  with  all  sorts  of  queer  no- 
tions of  his  own,  may  have  been,  though  the  world  little 
guesses  it,  a  thoroughly  disappointed  man ;  beginning 
life  with  a  grand  ideal  of  ambition  or  philanthropy, 
striving  hard  to  make  himself,  or  to  mend  the  world,  or 
both,  and  finding  that  the  task  is  something 
"  Like  one  who  strives  in  little  boat 

To  tug  to  him  the  ship  afloat." 

And  so,  though  he  has  escaped  being  swamped,  he  at 
last  gives  up  the  vain  struggle,  folds  his  arms,  and  lets 
himself  float  mournfully  on  with  the  ebbing  tide. 

For  the  tide  of  life  is  almost  sure  to  be  at  its  ebb 
with  those  whom  we  call  "odd"  people.  Therefore 
we  ask  for  them,  not  exactly  compassion — they  seldom 
need  it,  and  would  scorn  to  ask  it  for  themselves — but 
that  tenderness  which  is  allied  to  reverence,  and  shows 


"ODD"  PEOPLE.  49 

itself  as  such.  Young  people  have,  in  a  sense,  no  right 
to  be  odd.  They  have  plenty  of  years  before  them,  and 
will  meet  in  the  world  enough  attrition  so  as  to  rub 
down  their  angles,  and  make  them  polished  and  pleasant 
to  all  beholders.  Early  singularities  are  generally  mere 
affectations.  But  when  time  has  brought  to  most  of  us 
the  sad  "  too  late,"  which  in  many  things  more  or  less 
we  all  must  find,  the  case  is  a  little  different.  Then,  it 
becomes  the  generation  still  advancing  to  show  that 
which  is  just  passing  away  tenderness,  consideration, 
and  respect,  even  in  spite  of  many  harmless  weaknesses. 
For  they  know  themselves  as  none  other  can  ever 
know  them — except  God.  Others  see  their  failures,  but 
he  saw  how  they  struggled,  and  conquered  sometimes. 
Others  behold  their  gains  and  triumphs;  they  have  to 
sit  night  and  day  face  to  face  with  their  perpetual 
losses.  The  world  distinguishes,  shrewdly  enough,  all 
they  have  done,  or  not  done ;  they  themselves  only 
know  what  they  meant  to  do,  and  how  far  they  have 
succeeded.  If.  they  are  "  odd  "  —  that  is,  if,  having 
strong  individualities,  they  are  not  afraid  or  ashamed  to 
show  them,  to  speak  fearlessly,  to  act  independently,  or 
possibly,  plunging  into  the  other  extreme,  to  sink  into 
morbid  silence  and  neither  look  nor  speak  at  all — what 
marvel  ?  Better  this  than  to  be  exactly  like  everybody 
else,  and  go  through  life  as  evenly  and  as  uselessly  as  a 
chuckie-stane. 


50  "ODD"  PEOPLE. 

For,  undoubtedly,  odd  people  have  their  consola- 
tions. 

In  the  first  place,  they  are  quite  sure  not  to  be  weak 
people.  Every  one  with  a  marked  individuality  has 
always  this  one  great  blessing — he  can  stand  alone.  In 
his  pleasures  and  his  pains  he  is  sufficient  to  himself ; 
and  if  he  does  not  get  sympathy,  he  can  generally  do 
without  it.  Also,  "  peculiar  "  people,  though  not  attrac- 
tive to  the  many,  by  the  few  who  do  love  them  are  sure 
to  be  loved  very  deeply,  as  we  are  apt  to  love  those  who 
have  strong  salient  points,  and  in  whom  there  is  a  good 
deal  to  get  over.  And,  even  if  unloved,  they  have  gen- 
erally great  capacity  of  loving — a  higher  and,  it  may  be, 
a  safer  thing.  For  affection  that  rests  on  another's  love 
often  leans  on  a  broken  reed ;  love  which  rests  on  it- 
self is  founded  on  a  rock,  and  cannot  move.  The  waves 
may  lash,  the  winds  may  rave  around  it;  but  there  it  is, 
and  there  it  will  abide. 

The  loneliness  of  which  I  have  spoken  is  also  some- 
thing like  that  of  a  rock  in  the  great  sea,  which  flows 
about  it,  around  it,  and  over  it,  but  cannot  affect  it  save 
in  the  merest  outward  way.  Solitude,  the  possible  lot 
of  many,  is  to  these  few  a  lot  absolutely  inevitable.  No 
use  to  murmur  at  it,  or  grieve  over  it,  or  shrink  from  it. 
It  is  in  the  very  nature  of  things,  and  it  must  be  borne. 

They  whose  standard  of  right  is  not  movable  but 
fixed,  not  dictated  to  them  from  the  outside  but  drawn 


"ODD"  PEOPLE.  51 

from  something  within  ;  whose  ideal  is  nothing  in  them- 
selves or  what  they  have  around  them,  but  something 
above  and  beyond  both ;  whose  motives  are  often  total- 
ly misapprehended,  because  they  belong  not  to  the  seen, 
but  the  unseen  ;  and  whose  actions  are  alike  misjudged 
from  their  fearlessness  of  and  indifference  to  either 
praise  or  blame :  such  people  will  always  seem  "  odd  " 
in  the  eyes  of  the  world — which  knows  its  own,  and 
loves  them,  so  far  as  it  can.  But  these  it  never  does 
love,  though  it  is  sometimes  a  little  afraid  of  them. 
Now  and  then  it  runs  after  them  for  a  while,  and  then, 
being  disappointed,  runs  back,  and  leaves  them  stranded 
in  that  solitude  which  sooner  or  later  they  are  sure  to 
find.  Yet  this  solitude,  increasing  more  and  more  as 
years  advance,  has  in  it  glimpses  of  divine  beauty,  and  a 
continued  atmosphere  of  satisfied  peace,  which  outsiders 
can  seldom  comprehend.  Therefore  they  had  better 
leave  it,  and  the  "odd"  people  who  dwell  in  it,  with 
deep  reverence,  but  without  needless  pity,  in  the  hands 
of  the  Great  Consoler. 


A  LITTLE  MUSIC 


A  LITTLE  MUSIC. 


"  WILL  you  favor  us  with  a  little  music  this  even- 
ing ?" 

Such,  in  my  young  days,  used  to  be  the  stereotyped 
request.  And  truly  the  favor  was  small ;  likewise  the 
gratitude.  Everybody  at  once  began  talking — louder 
than  ever ;  and  probably  only  the  hostess,  standing  po- 
litely by  the  piano,  was  much  the  wiser  for  that  feeble, 
florid  performance  of  "  La  Source,"  or  "  Convent  Bells," 
or  "  Home,  Sweet  Home  "  with  variations — very  varied 
indeed.  Perhaps,  afterwards,  one  or  two  people  con- 
descended to  listen  to  a  mild  interpretation  of  "  She 
Wore  a  Wreath  of  Koses,"  or  even  "  The  Heart  Bowed 
Down,"  and  "I  Dreamt  that  I  Dwelt  in  Marble  Halls." 
But  any  one  who  remembers  what  was  the  standard  of 
drawing-room  vocalization  a  quarter  of  a  century  ago 
will  understand  how  the  gentle  sentimentalisms  of  poet 
Bunn  and  Michael  Balfe  sufficed  all  our  needs.  A  good 
many  of  our  young  folks  sang — some  in  tune,  some  out 
of  tune :  it  did  not  matter  much,  as  nobody  listened 


56  A   LITTLE   MUSIC. 

particularly.  Some  of  us  could  play  our  own  accom- 
paniments ;  some  could  not.  These  last  fared  badly 
enough,  generally  falling  into  the  hands  of  young  ladies 
who  "  had  never  been  used  to  play  at  sight,"  or  being 
hammered -into  nothing  by  some  wild  pianist  who  con- 
sidered the  accompaniment  everything,  the  voice  noth- 
ing. And,  our  performances  over,  the  listeners  or  non- 
listeners  said,  "  Thank  you,"  and  went  on  talking  faster 
than  ever.  All  had  done  their  duty,  the  evening  had 
been  helped  on  by  "  a  little  music  " — as  little  as  possible 
— and  everybody  was  satisfied. 

This,  I  believe  most  middle-aged  people  will  allow, 
is  a  fair  picture  of  what  English  drawing-room  music 
was  five-and-twenty  or  thirty  years  ago. 

In  the  concert-room  things  were  not  much  better. 
There  was,  so  far  as  I  can  call  to  mind,  no  educated 
audience  at  all,  and  therefore  no  classical  repertoire  was 
necessary.  Ballads  and  bravuras,  theatrical  overtures 
and  pots-pourris  of  operatic  airs,  a  few  showy,  noisy 
piano-forte  pieces  or  arrangements  for  violin  and  flute : 
this  was  the  ordinary  pabulum  provided  for  rnusic- 
lovers.  Such  a  bill  of  fare  as  nowadays  true  musicians 
revel  in  of  Saturday  after-noons  at  the  Crystal  Palace, 
at  the  Philharmonic,  or  the  Monday  Popular,  was  abso- 
lutely unknown.  Nobody  would  have  cared  for  it.  I 
myself  remember  when  Mendelssohn's  "  Lieder  ohne 
Worte  "  were  first  played,  and  nobody  listened  to  them 


A   LITTLE   MUSIC.  57 

particularly,  or  thought  very  much  of  them.  And  I 
once  heard  a  large  and  fashionable  Glasgow  audience 
keep  up  a  steady,  remorseless  monotone  of  conversation 
all  through  one  of  Charles  Halle's  best  recitals. 

People  do  not  do  that  now.  Of  late  years,  wherever 
you  go  to  hear  a  Beethoven  symphony,  you  have  the 
comfort  of  hearing  it  in  silence.  A  Crystal  Palace  au- 
dience, for  instance,  will  listen  to  the  solidest  of  music 
with  a  mute  attention  through  which  "you  might  hear 
a  pin  drop."  Nevertheless,  to  a  great  many  people — I 
was  going  to  write,  the  mass  of  people — might  be  ap- 
plied the  withering  sarcasm  which  was  hurled  at  myself 
the  other  day,  on  daring  to  own  that  I  did  not  admire 
all  old  masters.  "  Madam,  there  are  people  who,  if  you 
play  to  them  a  fugue  of  Bach's,  will  answer  '  Yes,  very 
fine ;'  but  in  their  hearts  they  prefer  '  Pop  goes  the 
Weasel.'" 

It  is  in  the  hope  of  raising  them  from  this  lowest 
depth  of  musical  degradation  that  I  am  tempted  to  use 
a  little  plain-speaking.  Cultivation  can  do  much ;  and 
if  we  believe — as  most  of  us  do — in  our  own  great  su- 
periority to  our  grandfathers  and  grandmothers,  why 
not  hope  that  our  grandchildren  may  be  superior  to  our- 
selves ?  I,  for  one,  shall  be  only  too  glad  to  think  so. 
The  old  ways  are  not  always  the  best  ways,  and  the 
weakest  argument  one  can  use  against  a  new  thing  is 
its  being  new.  With  exceeding  pleasure  I  allow  in 
3* 


58  A   LITTLE   MUSIC. 

how  many  things  I  have  lived  to  see  the  world  improve 
— especially  the  musical  world. 

For  instance,  last  night,  instead  of  the  feeble  even- 
ing-party performances  just  recorded,  I  heard  a  young 
lady,  scarcely  out  of  her  teens,  give  Handel's  "  Whene'er 
you  Walk" — in  a  thin  soprano,  certainly,  but  with  per- 
fectly true  intonation  and  correct  taste.  Her  mother 
played  it  for  her,  and  afterwards  played  a  page  or  two 
of  dear  old  Corelli  in  a  way  to  refresh  any  musical  soul. 
And  I  have  lately  been  staying  in  a  peaceful  provincial 
family,  where  the  father  and  son  sang  "  The  Lord  is  a 
Man  of  War"  almost  as  well  as  I  had  heard  it  at  the  Han- 
del festival  the  week  before ;  and  where,  out  of  business 
hours,  the  whole  house  was  alive  with  music — one  boy 
playing  the  violin,  another  the  organ,  and  a  third  the 
piano-forte ;  and  all  being  able  to  take  up  a  glee  or  an 
anthem  and  sing  it  at  sight,  without  hesitation  or  reluc- 
tance. 

Of  course  this  implies  a  considerable  amount  of  natu- 
ral musical  faculty  as  well  as  of  cultivation ;  yet  perhaps 
the  great  cause  of  the  low  standard  of  domestic  music 
in  England,  where  professional  music  is  as  good  as  any- 
where in  Europe,  is  not  so  much  the  lack  of  talent  as  of 
education.  A  professional  musician  of  long  experience 
said  to  me,  the  other  day,  that  he  believed  everybody 
had  a  voice  and  an  ear  capable  of  cultivation — which  is, 
I  think,  open  to  doubt.  But,  unquestionably,  the  num- 


A   LITTLE   MUSIC.  59 

ber  of  persons,  male  and  female,  who  have  voices  and 
ears,  and  could,  with  some  little  trouble,  be  made  into 
musicians,  is  sufficiently  numerous  to  prove  that  we 
have  only  ourselves  to  blame  if  the  present  state  of 
English  drawing-room  music  is — well !  all  true  mu- 
sicians and  music-lovers  know  what  it  is,  and  how  much 
they  often  have  to  bear. 

I  once  heard  a  non-musical  friend  say  of  herself  and 
another,  after  listening  to  an  exquisitely  played  trio  of 
Mozart's, "  It  was  eighteen  pages,  and — we  bore  it  well ;" 
to  which,  of  course,  a  laugh  was  the  only  possible  an- 
swer. But  the  negative  sufferings  of  unmusical  people 
can  be  nothing  to  the  positive  agony  of  those  others, 
blessed  or  cursed  with  a  sense  of  time  and  tune,  when 
doomed  to  be  auditors  of  "  a  little  music."  As  to  the 
instrumental,  one  braces  one's  nerves  for  what  is  going 
to  happen ;  but  when  it  comes  to  the  vocal,  one  often 
feels  inclined  to  put  one's  fingers  in  one's  ears  and 
scream.  The  torture — I  use  the  word  deliberately — 
that  it  is  to  sit  and  smile  at  a  smiling  young  lady  sing- 
ing flat  with  the  most  delightful  unconsciousness,  or 
pounding  away  at  a  deafening  accompaniment  which  is 
sometimes  a  blessing,  as  it  hides  the  errors  of  voice  and 
style !  And  oh !  the  patience  it  takes  to  say  "  Thank 
you  "  to  a  young  man  who  has  perhaps  a  really  fine 
voice  and  great  love  for  music,  but  has  never  learned 
his  notes,  and  sings  from  ear  and  guesswork !  Conse- 


60  A   LITTLE   MUSIC. 

quently,  his  unhappy  accompanist  has  to  run  after  him 
— stopping  out  a  crotchet  here  and  lengthening  a  quaver 
there,  abolishing  time  altogether,  and  only  too  glad  to 
be  "in  at  the  death"  with  a  few  extempore  chords. 
Yet  both  these  young  sinners  probably  consider  them- 
selves, and  are  considered  by  their  friends,  as  accom- 
plished performers. 

Ay — here  we  have  caught  the  right  snake  by  the  tail ! 
Let  us  grasp  him  hard  and  pull  him  out. 

There  is  a  delusive  tradition  still  extant  that  music  is 
an  "  accomplishment,"  and  those  who  exercise  it  must  be 
"performers;"  whereas  it  is  an  art,  or  rather  a  science, 
and  as  exact  a  science  as  mathematics  (which  perhaps 
accounts  for  the  fact  that  many  mathematicians  have 
been  also  musicians),  and  all  who  pursue  it  ought  to  be 
careful,  conscientious,  and  laborious  students. 

Thoroughness  in  anything  is  good  and  right — thor- 
oughness in  music  is  indispensable.  So  long  as  the 
piano-forte  and  singing  are  taught  merely  as  superficial 
branches  of  education,  with  a  view  to  showing  off,  so 
long  will  the  standard  of  music  remain  as  low  as  it  now 
is  among  our  young  people.  They  may  be  performers 
after  a  fashion,  but  they  will  never  be  artists ;  for  the 
true  artist  in  any  art  thinks  less  of  himself  than  of  his 
art,  and  the  great  charm  of  music  to  all  educated  mu- 
sicians lies  in  its  being  a  combination  art;  that  is,  its 
aim  is  not,  at  least  never  should  be,  simply  to  show  off 


A   LITTLE   MUSIC.  61 

one's  self,  but  to  be  able  to  take  a  part  in  a  whole  and 
to  contribute  to  the  general  benefit  and  enjoyrnent  of 
society.  Therefore,  a  pianoforte-player  who  "  has  not 
brought  her  music,"  a  vocalist  who  "doesn't  know  that 
duet  —  has  never  learned  it,"  or  a  part-singer  who  is 
"  very  sorry,  but  cannot  sing  at  sight,"  are  a  style  of 
musicians  much  to  be  deplored  and  a  little  blamed. 
Something  has  been  wrong  in  their  education;  they 
have  been  taught  to  consider  music  as  a  personal  exhi- 
bition instead  of  an  art,  in  which  each  artist  is  but  a 
student  and  a  contributor  to  the  general  whole. 

Until  music  is  so  taught  from  the  first  that  every  boy 
or  girl,  young  man  or  young  woman,  who  pretends  to 
love  and  practise  it  shall  be  capable  of  doing  this  in 
connection  with  others,  of  sitting  down  to  play  an  ac- 
companiment at  sight,  or  reading  a  part  in*  a  glee  as 
easily  as  out  of  a  printed  book,  I  fear  we  cannot  be  con- 
sidered a  musical  nation.  And  it  would  be  better  for 
us  if  we  were,  since  of  all  the  arts  music  is  the  most  so- 
cial, and  sympathy  therein  the  most  delightful  and  the 
most  humanizing. 

Another  superstition  of  the  last  generation  I  should 
also  like  to  drag  to  light  and  annihilate.  It  was  consid- 
ered fitting  that  young  ladies — all  young  ladies — should 
learn  music — to  sing  if  they  could,  but  at  all  events  to 
play.  Young  ladies  only.  The  idea  of  a  boy  playing 
the  piano  was  scouted  entirely.  I  had  once  a  small 


62  A   LITTLE   MUSIC. 

friend  who  did  it :  we  were  both  about  eleven  years  old, 
and  he  liked  to  come  of  Saturday  afternoons  to  play 
duets  with  me  instead  of  cricket  writh  his  school-fellows, 
till  the  ridicule  hurled  at  him  was  too  much  to  bear. 
He  came  no  more.  (N.B.  I  have  never  seen  him  since, 
but  I  believe  he  is  extant  still — doubtless  a  respectable 
and  elderly  paterfamilias.  Should  he  see  this  paper,  I 
hope  he  will  remember  our  mutual  sufferings,  and  allow 
his  own  sons  or  grandsons  to  study  music  undespised.) 

All  boys  who  show  any  aptitude  for  music  should  be 
taught  it  without  hesitation.  Nay,  for  some  things  it 
is  a  greater  advantage  to  boys  than  girls  to  have  a  pur- 
suit which  is  at  once  a  study  and  an  amusement.  We 
all  know  how  very  helpless  a  man  is  without  his  work. 
Should  sickness  or  other  necessity  keep  him  away  from 
business,  he  goes  moping  about  the  house  restless  and 
mournful,  "  as  cross  as  two  sticks,"  a  torment  to  every- 
body, and  above  all  to  himself.  Women  have  usually 
plenty  to  do,  under  all  circumstances ;  but  men,  unless 
blessed  with  some  special  hobby,  have  almost  nothing. 

Young  men  especially.  What  anxiety  do  they  not 
give  their  parents  as  to  how  they  should  spend  their 
evenings,  when  they  come  home  too  tired  to  do  any- 
thing but  amuse  themselves  !  In  what  way  ?  No  diffi- 
culty of  answering  the  question  in  the  family  to  which 
I  have  referred,  where  one  room — emphatically  "  the 
boys'  room  " — contained  a  piano,  a  violin,  a  concertina, 


A   LITTLE   MUSIC.  63 

and  "scores"  without  end.  The  sounds  that  issued 
from  it  at  all  available  hours  did  not  imply  that  the 
boys  were  idling.  Of  course  music  may  lead  a  man 
into  temptation,  but  it  is  just  as  likely  to  keep  him  out 
of  it.  If  "  Satan  finds  some  mischief  still  for  idle  hands 
to  do,"  perhaps  it  might  be  as  well  to  place  the  idle 
hands  on  the  piano  or  violin,  and  see  what  would  come 
of  that ! 

But  then,  as  I  said,  music  must  be  studied  as  an  art, 
and  not  as  a  mere  amusement.  Whether  or  not  my 
clever  professor  be  right,  and  everybody  has  a  voice 
and  ear,  only  needing  cultivation  more  or  less,  still  in 
many  cases  it  requires  the  "  more  "  and  not  the  "  less." 
Besides,  "  everything  that  is  worth  doing  at  all  is  worth 
doing  well ;"  and  music  is  one  of  those  things  which, 
if  not  done  well,  is  better  left  undone,  for  the  sake  of 
other  folk.  A  man  may  hide  his  feeble  sketches  in  his 
portfolio,  and  publish  his  bad  poetry,  in  books  which 
nobody  reads ;  but  an  incapable  violinist,  an  incorrect 
pianoforte-player,  or  a  singer  out  of  tune,  cannot  possi- 
bly be  secluded,  but  must  exhibit  his  shortcomings  for 
the  affliction  and  aggravation  of  society. 

Therefore,  I  would  advise  no  child's  being  taught 
music  who  has  not  a  natural  aptitude  for  it.  Decided 
.  musical  talent  generally  shows  itself  early :  many  chil- 
dren sing  before  they  can  speak.  I  have  written  down, 
with  the  date  affixed,  so  that  there  could  be  no  mistake, 


64:  A    LITTLE   MUSIC. 

more  than  one  actual  tune  invented  and  sung  by  a 
small  person  three  years  old.  But  the  negative  to 
these  positive  instances  is  less  easily  ascertained.  The 
musical  like  many  another  faculty  develops  more  or 
less  rapidly  according  to  the  atmosphere  it  grows  in ; 
and  there  is  always  a  certain  period  of  "grind"  so  very 
distasteful  that  many  a  child  will  declare  it  "  hates  mu- 
sic "  and  wish  to  give  it  up,  when  a  little  perseverance 
would  make  of  it  an  excellent  musician.  I  am  no  cul- 
tivated musician  myself ;  I  wish  with  all  my  heart  the 
hard  work  of  life  would  have  allowed  me  to  be ;  but  I 
feel  grateful  now  for  having  .been  compelled  three  times 
over,  amid  many  tears,  to  learn  my  notes — which  was 
nearly  all  the  instruction  destiny  ever  vouchsafed  me. 

Nevertheless,  I  believe  I  did  a  good  deed  the  other 
day.  A  mother  said  to  me,  "  My  child  is  thirteen,  and 
has  been  working  at  music  ever  since  she  was  seven. 
She  has  no  ear  and  no  taste.  If  she  plays  a  false  .note, 
she  never  knows  it.  Yet  she  practises  very  conscien- 
tiously two  hours  a  day.  What  must  I  do  with  her?" 
My  answer  was  brief:  "  Shut  the  piano  and  never  let 
her  open  it  more."  The  advice  was  taken ;  and  the 
girl,  who  now  spends  that  unhappy  two  hours  upon 
other  things,  especially  drawing,  in  which  she  is  very 
diligent  and  very  clever,  would  doubtless  bless  me  in 
her  heart  if  she  knew  all. 

But  the  love  of  music,  which  she  had  not,  often  exists 


A   LITTLE   MUSIC.  65 

with  small  capacity  as  to  ear,  voice,  etc.  Still,  in  such 
cases,  cultivation  can  do  much.  Many  vocalists,  profes- 
sional and  otherwise,  have  begun  by  being  vox  etprcete- 
rea  nihil — that  is,  possessing  a  fine  organ,  but  no  skill 
in  using  it ;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  many  delightful 
singers — I  recall  especially  Thomas  Moore  and  Sheridan 
Knowles — have  had  scarcely  any  voice  at  all.  The  ex- 
pression, the  taste,  the  reading  of  a  song,  are  as  essential 
as  the  voice  to  sing  it ;'  and  these  last  long  after  Nat- 
ure's slow  but  inevitable  decay  has  taken  away  what  to 
a  singer  is  always  a  sore  thing  to  part  with — so  sore 
that  many  are  very  long,  far  too  long,  in  recognizing 
the  sad  fact  that  now,  when  they  really  know  how 
properly  to  sing  a  song,  they  have  lost  the  power  of 
singing  it. 

But  art,  cultivation,  and  a  little  timely  clear-sighted- 
ness and  clear-hearingness  can  prop  up  many  a  failing 
voice.  Any  one  who  remembers  how  Braham  sang  at 
seventy-five  will  acknowledge  this.  A  then  young  but 
now  elderly  musician  once  told  me  he  remembered  hav- 
ing had  to  accompany  the  old  tenor  in  "  The  Bay  of 
Biscay,"  given  with  a  fire  and  force  almost  incredible 
in  a  septuagenarian,  and  received  with  thunders  of  en- 
cores. "  My  boy,"  whispered  the  great  vocalist,  "  play 
it  half  a  tone  lower."  Again  it  was  given  and  again 
encored.  "  Half  a  tone  lower  still.  They'll  never  find 
us  out."  Nor  did  they ;  and  the  applause  after  the  third 


66  A   LITTLE   MUSIC. 

effort  was  loudest  of  all,  so  completely  did  art  conceal 
the  effects  of  failing  nature.  But  suppose  the  singer 
had  not  been  an -artist?  or  the  accompanist  had  only 
understood  "a  little  music,"  and  been  incapable  of 
transposing  "  half  a  tone  ?" 

If  music  is  studied  at  all,  it  ought  to  be  studied  thor- 
oughly, and  from  the  very  first.  Parents  are  apt  to 
think  that  anybody  can  teach  a  child,  and  that  any  sort 
of  piano  is  good  enough  for  a  child  to  practise  on.  No 
mistake  can  be  more  fatal.  A  child  who  is  fit  to  be 
taught  at  all  should  be  taught  by  a  capable  musician, 
with  intelligence  enough  to  make  the  groundwork  not 
merely  superficial  but  solid,  and  not  only  solid  but  in- 
teresting. A  great  deal  of  the  preliminary  study  of 
music  is  not  at  all  interesting,  unless  the  teacher  thor- 
oughly understands,  and  takes  the  trouble  to  make  the 
child  understand,  the  infinite  and  complicated  beauty  of 
the  science  of  harmony,  in  opposition  to  the  dulness  of 
mere  strumming.  Then  the  little  soul,  should  there  be 
a  musical  soul,  will  soon  wake  up,  will  comprehend  the 
why  and  wherefore  of  the  most  wearisome  of  scales  and 
the  hardest  of  exercises,  and  conceive  an  ambition,  not 
merely  to  "  play  a  piece,"  but  to  become  a  true  musician. 

That  playing  of  pieces  or  singing  of  songs  merely  to 
gratify  the  parents  and  demonstrate  the  cleverness  of 
the  teacher  is  the  most  dangerous  thing  possible  for  real 
art.  It  substitutes  clap-trap  for  pure  taste,  and  outside 


A   LITTLE   MUSIC.  67 

effect  for  thoroughness  of  study.  It  is  also  very  bad 
for  the  performer.  Many  a  nervous  child  can  play  well 
enough  alone,  but  if  set  to  show  off. before  a  room  full 
of  indifferent  people  is  absolutely  paralyzed.  And  an 
inferior  child,  who  is  not  nervous,  is  probably  made  in- 
tolerably self -conceited  by  this  showing-off ;  which  fool- 
ish parents  applaud  and  are  delighted  with,  ignorant 
that  the  true  aim  and  end  of  music  is,  first,  the  delight 
of  the  musician  himself,  and,  next,  that  he  should  be 
able,  either  singly  or  as  a  part  in  a  whole,  to  contribute 
to  the  delight  of  other  people — cultivated  people  first, 
but  likewise  all  people.  For,  in  spite  of  my  friend's  se- 
vere remark  about  "  Pop  Goes  the  Weasel,"  I  believe 
that  the  very  highest  art  is  also  the  simplest,  and  there- 
fore will  always  touch  the  masses — perhaps  far  more 
than  art  a  degree  lower  and  more  complex.  There  may 
be  two  opinions  upon  Beethoven's  "  Mount  of  Olives," 
grand  as  it  is;  but  I  think  the  veriest  clown  that  ever 
walked  could  not  listen  unmoved  to  Handel's  "  Hallelu- 
jah Chorus ;"  or  even  to  what,  after  twenty-five  years, 
I  remember  like  a  dream,  as  the  perfect  expression  of 
musical  art  and  religious  faith — Clara  Novello's  singing 
of  "  I  Know  that  my  Redeemer  Liveth." 

It  is  art  such  as  this,  and  taste  cultivated  so  as  to  be 
able  to  appreciate  it,  which  I  would  desire  to  see  put 
in  place  of  that  "  little  music  "  which,  like  "  a  little  learn- 
ing," is  a  "  dangerous  thing."  Dangerous,  in  the  first 


68  A   LITTLE   MUSIC. 

place,  because  all  shallow  and  superficial  acquirements 
must  be  so ;  and,  secondly,  because  it  inclines  to  a  sys- 
tem of  personal  display  at  small  cost,  which  is  always 
the  deterioration  of  true  art.  Surely  it  would  be  none 
the  worse  for  us  in  England — it  is  not  in  Germany — if, 
instead  of  each  person  being  taught  to  sing  and  play 
for  himself,  more  or  less  badly,  the  general  aim  of  musi- 
cal education  were  that  every  member  of  every  family 
should  try  to  be  able  to  take  part  in  a  simple  family 
concert — good  chamber  music,  or  pleasant  after-dinner 
part  songs  and  glees.  Why  should  not  our  young  peo- 
ple be  trained  so  as  to  enjoy  their  own  performances  at 
home  instead  of  going  out  to  enjoy,  or  pretend  to  enjoy, 
those  of  other  folks,  at  theatres  or  music-halls,  or  still 
less  creditable  places  ? 

In  the  good  old  times,  probably  it  was  so.  Pepys's 
Diary  seems  to  imply  that  in  his  day  every  one  could 
bear  a  hand,  or  a  voice,  in  an  after-supper  catch.  -And 
further  back  still  we  have  plenty  of  evidence  that  the 
Elizabethan  soldiers  thought  none  the  worse  of  them- 
selves for  being  able  not  only  to  sing,  but  to  compose, 
an  Elizabethan  madrigal.  Our  Victoria,  who  probably 
knows  and  loves  music  much  better  than  Queen  Eliz- 
abeth did,  spite  of  her  virginals  and  virginal -book, 
might  spread  downwards,  among  all  classes,  that  whole- 
some influence  which,  if  rightly  guided,  more  than  any 
other  refines  a  generation. 


A  LITTLE   MUSIC.  (JV 

But,  even  in  my  own  generation,  I  have  seen  music 
advance  so  much  that  I  have  hope  in  the  "  good  tiirie 
coming."  It  casts  its  shadow  before.  The  other  day, 
at  a  garden  party,  I  heard  one  of  Mendelssohn's  con- 
certos, for  piano,  violin,  and  violoncello,  given  by  three 
young  people  in  a  manner  that  Mendelssohn  himself 
would  have  liked  to  hear.  And  a  brother  and  sister 
played  a  Handel  duet,  violin  and  piano,  after  a  fashion 
that  implied  many  a  pleasant  evening  of  fraternal  prac- 
tising. The  singing,  too,  though  one  voice  had  a  little 
passed  its  first  youth,  another  owed  more  to  cultivation 
than  to  nature,  and  a  third,  though  it  was  exceedingly 
beautiful — well !  the  luckless  accompanist  had  now  and 
then  to  count  five  crotchets  in  a  bar  in  order  to  keep 
time.  Still,  every  vocalist  showed  taste,  feeling,  and  ex- 
pression, and  every  song  was  well  chosen  and  pleasant 
to  hear.  Between  whiles  people  wandered  to  the  sim- 
ple tea-table  under  one  tree  and  the  fruit -table  under 
another,  but  they  always  returned  and  filled  the  music- 
room — filled  it,  I  am  glad  to  say,  with  an  audience  that 
was  perfectly  silent. 

And  here  let  me  end  with  a  passionate  and  indignant 
protest  against  the  habit  which  ill-conditioned  guests  in- 
dulge in,  and  weak  hostesses  permit,  of  talking  during 
music ;  a  solecism  in  good  manners  and  good  feeling, 
which,  whenever  it  is  found,  either  in  public  or  private, 
should  be  put  a  stop  to,  firmly  and  remorselessly.  If 
people  do  not  like  music,  they  need  not  listen  to  it ; 


70  '  A  LITTLE   MUSIC. 

they  can  go  away.  But  any  person  who  finds  himself 
at' a  concert  or  in  a  drawing-room  where  music  is  going 
on,  and  does  not  pay  it  the  respect  of  silence — total  si- 
lence— is  severely  to  be  reprehended.  And  whosoever, 
in  any  public  room,  sits  by  and  does  not  remonstrate 
against  such  behavior,  or,  in  a  private  room,  connives  at 
and  submits  to  it,  is — let  me  put  it  in  the  mildest  form 
— a  very  weak-minded  and  cowardly  person. 

To  recapitulate  in  a  few  words.  Let  every  child, 
boy  or  girl,  be  taught  music,  or  tried  to  be  taught,,  till 
found  incapable.  Then  abolish  music  altogether,  and 
turn  to  more  congenial  and  useful  study.  Let  no  one 
pretend  to  love  music  who  does  not  really  do  so,  but  let 
those  who  do  love  it  study  it  well  and  thoroughly,  so 
far  as  the  work  of  life  will  allow.  And  let  them  always 
remember  that  the  aim  of  their  studies  is  not  to  display 
themselves,  but  the  music,  since  the  best  of  musicians 
is  only  an  interpreter.  There  are  endless  varieties  of 
language  to  choose  from,  and  each  reader  has  a  different 
taste  and  different  style.  Nay,  I  will  go  so  far  as  to 
say  that  he  who  can  interpret  "Pop  goes  the  Weasel" 
with  spirit,  fire,  and  accuracy  is  not  a  person  to  be  de- 
spised. In  one  word,  let  every  one  who  pretends  to  do 
anything  in  the  science  of  sweet  sounds  try  to  do  it  as 
well  as  he  possibly  can. 

Then  haply  we  shall  gradually  cease  to  be  "  favored" 
with  that  great  abomination  to  all  appreciative  souls — 
"  a  little  music." 


CONIES 


CONIES. 


"  The  conies  are  but  a  feeble  folk." — PROVERBS. 

LISTENING  of  late  to  the  above  text,  it  struck  me 
what  a  number  of  people  there  are  in  this  world  who 
may  be  termed  "  conies !"  Very  sleek,  mild,  amiable 
souls,  quite  harmless  too  (or  apparently  so),  who  go  pot- 
tering about  on  their  pretty  little  feet,  and  hiding  them- 
selves in  holes  and  corners,  coming  out  every  now  and 
then  in  the  sunshine — only  in  the  sunshine— and  escap- 
ing everything  unpleasant  as  much  as  they  can.  For 
they  like  brightness,  and  smoothness,  and  easiness  of 
living ;  they  are  but  "  a  feeble  folk,"  after  all. 

And  yet — 

Long  ago  I  planned  an  article  "  On  the  Tyranny  of 
Weakness,"  for  a  tyranny  it  truly  is,  the  sight  of  which 
often  makes  one's  blood  boil  with  indignation.  But 
indignation  against  what?  Against  creatures  so  feeble 
that  attacking  them  feels  like  hitting  a  man  that  is 
down.  And  then  chivalry — the  pitying  protection  of 
the  weak  by  the  strong — is  a  thing  so  right  and  noble, 
besides  being  so  rare,  that  one  fears  to  make  it  one  whit 
4 


74  CONIES. 

the  rarer.  Besides,  in  dealing  with  the  feeble,  should 
we  not  rather  try  and  put  strength  into  them  than  abuse 
them  for  their  want  of  it  ? 

These  "conies,"  they  are  pretty,  innocent-looking, 
peaceful  folk ;  passing  their  mild  lives  in  a  hole  in  a 
rock,  and  desirous  of  troubling  nobody  —  or  at  least 
they  say  so.  Yet  the  extent  to  which  they  do  trouble 
people,  the  torment  they  are  to  their  affectionate  friends 
and  to  the  world  at  large,  by  their  weakness,  indecision, 
and  general  incapacity,  is  something  incalculable.  A 
wicked  person  one  can  meet  and  battle  with — and  some 
forms  of  wickedness  are  only  energy  turned  into  a  wrong 
channel,  and  capable  of  being  turned  back  again  ;  but 
with  the  weak  one  has  no  chance.  To  have  to  do  with 
them  is  like  walking  along  shifting  sands,  slipping  at 
every  step,  and  dragged  down  continually  by  a  weight 
not  one's  own.  No  wonder  that  we  at  last  cry  out,  and 
learn  to  hate  amiable  fools  with  a  rancor  almost  more 
than  we  feel  towards  absolute  villains.  The  latter  are 
ravening  wolves,  but  these  are  wolves  in  sheep's  cloth- 
ing— nay,  clothed  in  the  wo®l  of  the  very  mildest  of 
lambs  —  who  creep  beside  us  and  gnaw  out  our  very 
vitals  before  we  are  aware. 

Well  do  we  know  them,  these  dear  "conies,"  who 
have  the  character  of  being  so  very  amiable.  People 
who  are  always  deferring  to  other  people  ;  who  never 
know  their  own  minds — perhaps,  indeed,  they  have  not 


CONIES.  75 

got  any  to  know ;  who  are  always  hanging  the  burden 
of  their  existence  upon  friends  and  relatives;  asking 
advice,  but  seldom  following  it ;  making  endless  plans 
which  they  never  carry  out.  They  are  full  of  the  best 
intentions,  have  the  most  ardent  desire  to  do  right ; 
they  put  forth  that  desire  and  those  intentions  in  the 
most  voluminous  and  exemplary  form,  yet  somehow 
nothing  seems  to  come  of  either.  They  are  always  get- 
ting into  muddles;  and  if  they  ever  succeed  in  doing 
anything,  the  chances  are  they  do  it  wrong.  In  fact, 
most  things  seem  to  go  wrong  with  them.  Why? 
They  are  not  wild  beasts,  they  are  not  reptiles,  they  are 
simply  "conies."  The  worst  we  can  say  of  them  is 
that  they  are  "a  feeble  folk,"  and  yet  they  aggravate 
us  to  the  last  limit  of  endurance. 

Ay,  even  in  small  things.  We  all  know  sometimes 
what  it  is  to  have  a  cony  at  the  head  of  a  pleasure 
party — which  is  sure,  soon  or  late,  to  become  a  party  of 
pain.  Not  through  any  intentional  badness.  In  fact, 
the  cony  is  the  most  yielding  creature  possible,  always 
deferring  to  everybody.  But  of  that  quick  yet  firm  de- 
cision which,  taking  in  unselfishly  and  wisely  the  great- 
est good  of  the  greatest  number,  has  sense  to  act  upon 
it  without  troubling  anybody,  and  so  does  the  best  for 
all — of  this  the  cony,  male  or  female,  is  absolutely  in- 
capable. Consequently  arise  all  kinds  of  mistakes  and 
mismanagements :  some  lose  head,  others  temper,  and 


76  CONIES. 

the  government,  or  autocracy — is  not  a  good  autocrat 
the  best  of  rulers?  —  drifts  into  a  feeble,  muddling, 
wrangling  democracy,  which  is  the  worst  form  of  rule 
for  either  a  picnic  or  a  kingdom.  For,  not  to  speak  it 
profanely,  the  doctrine  of  "  Every  man  for  himself,  and 
God  for  us  all,"  very  often  ends  in  "  Every  man  against 
himself,  and  God  for  nobody." 

It  is  a  still  more  unfortunate  circumstance  when  a 
cony  happens  to  be  the  master  or  mistress  of  a  family 
— especially  the  latter,  since,  soon  or  late,  a  household 
must  fall  into  the  hands  of  its  women,  and  sink  or 
swim  according  to  their  capacities.  I  have  seen  more 
than  one  creditable,  well-managed  family,  in  which  all 
the.  world,  except  himself,  recognized  that  its  master 
was  a  mere  goose,  happy  if  only  a  goose !  Yet  he  kept 
up  the  delusion  that  he  was  "  the  head  of  the  family," 
and  under  his  imaginary  guidance — and  some  one  else's 
real  control  —  all  went  well.  But  I  never  yet  saw  a 
household  in  which  the  mistress  was  a  fool,  or  even  a 
cony,  which  did  not,  soon  or  late,  crumble  into  hopeless 
decay. 

She  who  is  exactly  the  opposite  of  Solomon's  "  virtu- 
ous woman,"  who  does  not  "  work  willingly  with  her 
hands ;"  who  rises  up  late  in  the  morning  and  dislikes 
the  trouble  of  taking  care  of  her  children  and  guiding 
her  servants ;  who,  so  far  from  "  considering  a  field  and 
buying  it,"  knows  little  or  nothing  about  money,  except 


CONIES.  77 

spending  it ;  who  has  no  will  or  opinion  of  her  own, 
but  appeals  in  everything  to  her  husband  or  whoever 
chances  to  be  near  her — for  these  sweet  climbing-plants 
will  hang  on  to  any  sort  of  stick :  such  a  woman  may 
be  very  charming,  very  pretty,  very  amiable,  but  woe 
betide  the  man  who  marries  her!  He  will  soon  learn 
to  sicken  at  her  sweetness,  to  care  nothing  for  her 
charms  —  nay,  perhaps  even  to  despise  her  affection, 
since  it  probably  expends  itself  in  words  and  demon-, 
strations  instead  of  being  the  silent  love  of  acts  and 
deeds,  which  make  the  rest  and  comfort  of  a  man's 
home. 

It  is  hard  enough  for  a  man  to  be  married  to  a  bad 
woman ;  still,  if  she  is  not  too  bad,  he  can  sometimes 
reason  with  and  control  her,  or,  at  the  worst,  he  can  get 
rid  of  her.  But  for  a  man  who  marries  a  feeble  woman 
there  is  no  hope.  She  can  neither  take  care  of  him  nor 
of  herself ;  he  cannot  rule  her,  for  the  hardest  thing 
possible  to  manage  is  a  fool ;  and,  saddest  thoughts  of 
all,  what  hope  has  he  for  the  future  ?  A  bad  man's 
children  often  turn  out  very  good — perhaps,  as  said  the 
temperance  lecturer  about  a  drunken  brother,  in  conse- 
quence of  his  "  shocking  example."  But  what  chance, 
either  by  inheritance  or  upbringing,  have  the  children 
of  a  foolish,  feeble  mother,  who  can  neither  guide  them 
nor  herself — who,  however  sweet  she  may  be,  has  no 
notion  of  the  firmness  which  is  as  necessary  as  tender- 


78  CONIES. 

ness,  aud  of  the  wise  authority  which  results  from  truest 
love? 

Glance  into  the  inner  life  of  a  household  like  this, 
and  we  know  at  once  what  to  expect.  There  is  a  gen- 
eral sense  of  doubtfulness  and  confusion.  Meals  never 
appear  at  the  fixed  time ;  arrangements  are  always  lia- 
ble to  be  altered  or  put  off ;  servants  call  you  a  little  af- 
ter the  right  hour,  and  carriages  drive  round  to  the  door 
just  in  time  to  let  you  miss  your  train.  Children  hang 
about,  and  get  in  your  way,  poor  lambs !  having  no  no- 
tion of  obedience,  because,  in  truth,  there  is  nothing  to 
obey  ;  domestics  are  disorderly  because  the  orders  given 
are  so  often  irregular  and  contradictory  that  it  is  impos- 
sible to  carry  them  out.  Consequently,  about  the  whole 
regime  is  a  kind  of  haziness — a  sense  of  being  out  of 
focus — which  to  clear-eyed,  accurate  people  is  simply 
maddening.  One  feels  it  would  be  pardonable  to  relin- 
quish the  most  charming  friends  in  the  world  if  they 
will  not  give  us  our  "  meals  reg'lar  " — if  they  are  late 
at  night  and  equally  late  in  the  morning — if  they  add 
to  all  their  plans  and  intentions  the  modification  which 
a  sarcastic  acquaintance  once  suggested  should  be  put 
up  as  the  motto  of  a  very  amiable  family,  "  Please 
Heaven,  should  we  remain  in  the  same  mind  to-mor- 
row." 

Poor,  dear  "  conies  !"  they  have  little  enough  mind 
to  remain  in.  But,  for  all  that,  they  are  very  aggravat- 


CONIES.  79 

ing.  They  always  listen  to  the  advice  of  the  last  ad- 
viser. You  may  leave  them  on  Monday,  quite  satisfied 
that  they  will  follow  yours,  after  you  have  taken  an  im- 
mensity of  trouble  to  plan  and  to  act  for  them ;  and, 
coming  back  on  Tuesday,  you  may  find  that  somebody 
else  has  persuaded  them  to  a  contrary  course ;  that  they 
now  see  everything  in  quite  a  different  light,  and  are 
prepared  to  act  diametrically  opposite  to  their  declared 
intentions  of  yesterday.  Of  course  you  have  nothing  to 
say;  all  your  labor  has  been  thrown  away.  But  they 
are  so  kind,  so  sweet,  so  grateful ;  so  desirous  of  doing 
everything  for  the  best,  and  pleasing  everybody.  What 
can  you  do  but  "grin  and  bear  it?"  They  have  done 
nothing — in  fact,  they  never  do  anything — wrong;  they 
are  so  excessively  gentle  and  innocent.  You  feel  your- 
self a  great  sinner  for  being  irritated  against  them,  yet 
you  are ;  and  you  go  away,  resolving  to  take  no  more 
trouble  about  them,  till  the  next  time. 

This  faculty,  or  non-faculty,  of  never  knowing  one's 
own  mind  sometimes  passes  for  wisdom.  The  gift  of 
seeing  a  subject  on  all  sides  is  supposed  to  be  very 
valuable;  prudence  and  caution  are  always  ranked 
among  the  virtues,  and  with  reason.  Yet  I  doubt  if,  in 
the  long  run,  a  habit  of  rapid  decision,  even  though  it 
occasionally  becomes  rashness,  is  not  less  harmful  than 
that  fatal  indecision  which  is  the  curse  and  misery  of 
life.  The  people  who  do  something,  even  though  they 


80  CONIES. 

may  now  and  then  do  it  hastily  and  amiss,  are  certainly 
more  useful  than  the  people  who  only  talk  about  doing 
things ;  and  they  who  have  the  blessed  quality  of  being 
able  to  make  up  their  minds,  even  though  they  make  it 
up  in  a  hard  bundle  and  throw  it  at  their  neighbors' 
heads,  are,  on  the  whole,  less  harmful  to  society  than 
those  who  never  know  their  own  minds  at  all.  The 
shrillest  clarion,  if  in  tune,  is  more  tolerable  than  those 
feeble  trumpets  giving  an  uncertain  sound,  which  are 
the  torment  and  irritation  of  life. 

Especially  in  one  phase  of  life,  to  which  conies  of 
both  sexes  are  particularly  liable,  and  in  which  they  are 
particularly  objectionable :  I  mean  the  amatory  phase. 
Of  course  they  fall  in  love  (everybody  does);  and,  being 
conies — that  is,  a  smooth,  soft,  pliable,  and  attractive 
race — are  specially  prone  to  give  and  take  the  universal 
complaint  in  a  mild  sort  of  way.  Then,  the  trouble 
they  cause  to  their  friends  and  relations  is  endless. 

If  there  is  a  question  to  which  man  or  woman  ought 
to  be  able  to  give  a  simple  and  direct  answer,  and  in 
which  not  to  be  able  to  give  it  is  something  worse  than 
ridiculous,  it  is  the  question  whether  they  do  or  do  not 
prefer  one  to  all  others  as  a  companion  for  life,  or 
whether,  having  chosen,  they  will  hold  fast  to  him  or 
her  through  life.  One  would  imagine  this  was  the 
very  easiest  question  to  ask  or  answer,  the  very  plainest 
point  of  right  and  wrong,  in  which,  whatever  difficulties 


CONIES.  81 

presented  themselves  outside,  there  could  be  none  in  the 
mind  of  the  persons  concerned,  who  are,  in  truth,  the 
only  persons  concerned.  If  there  is  one  thing  in  life 
which  people  ought  to  decide  for  themselves,  it  is  their 
choice  in  marriage. 

Tet  this  is  the  thing  in  which  everybody  interferes, 
appeals  for,  or  listens  to,  interference ;  •  so  that  what 
ought  to  be  the  happiest  bit  of  life  becomes  the  most 
unhappy.  I  hope,  to  the  end  of  my  days,  to  be  able  to 
sympathize  with  an  honest  and  hearty  love,  whether 
fortunate  or  not ;  but  I  own  that  the  "  bother "  some 
young  people  and  their  love  affairs  cause  to  their  affec- 
tionate friends  and  the  public  in  general  is  quite  intol- 
erable. 

Sneerers  at  our  sex  have  said  that  "  any  man  can  suc- 
ceed in  marrying  any  woman ;"  and  really,  when  one 
looks  round  on  the  sort  of  men  some  women  do  conde- 
scend to  marry,  one  is  almost  tempted  to  believe  this. 
Persistency,  patience,  and  courage  are  such  rare  quali- 
ties that  they  almost  deserve  to  win — and  do  win — cer- 
tain kinds  of  women.  Though  it  seems  strange  that 
any  true  man,  truly  loving,  should  stoop  to  be  loved  in 
that  sort  of  way — being  asked  by  his  idol  for  "  a  month's 
time  to  think  it  over,"  or  "  till  she  has  consulted  her 
friends,"  or,  lowest  degradation  of  all,  "  till  she  can  in- 
quire into  his  income,  and  whether  he  can  make  good 
settlements."  Of  course  exceptions  will  occur.  Some 
4* 


82  CONIES. 

men  make  offers,  especially  to  conies,  before  the  girl 
has  ever  seriously  thought  of  them ;  and  some  girls,  of 
timid  nature,  require  long  persuasion  before  they  love. 
Persistency,  which  is  so  attractive,  often  attains  its  end, 
and  happy  marriages  are  not  unknown  in  which  the 
lover  has  been  refused  several  times  and  accepted  at 
last.  Still,  the  safest  marriage  is  certainly  that  in  which 
the  momentous  question  needs  only  a  yes  or  no,  abso- 
lute and  final.  Nay,  perhaps  the  ideal  of  marriage  is 
that  I  once  heard  expressed  or  implied  by  an  old  lady, 
looking  with  a  smile  at  her  old  husband,  and  talking  to 
a  newly  affianced  granddaughter,  "  Asked  me,  did  yon 
say  ?  Why,  niy  dear,  he  never  asked  me  at  all !  We 
both  knew  our  own  minds,  and  so  we  married." 

But  the  cony  never  knows  her  own  mind,  either  be- 
fore the  offer  or  after  it.  It  has  been  the  fashion  to 
abuse  faithless  men — "deceivers  ever" — but  quite  as 
much  woe  has  been  worked  by  women  not  intentional- 
ly faithless,  and  by  no  means  willing  to  deceive.  A 
point-blank  refusal  kills  no  man,  however  he  may  say 
it  will.  Often  it  does  his  character  real  good ;  teaches 
him  his  own  failings,  and  shows  him — a  rather  desirable 
thing  for  modern  youths — that  he  has  not  merely  to 
ask  and  to  have.  No  tender-hearted  maiden  need  fear 
her  discarded  lover  breaking  his  heart ;  many  a  mascu- 
line heart  is  "  caught  at  the  rebound,"  and  the  chances 
are  that  the  second  will  do  quite  as  well  as  the  first. 


CONIES.  83 

The  chief  harm  done  to  men  is  by  feeble  women, 
who  play  fast  and  loose  —  making  and  .breaking  en- 
gagements with  equal  facility,  and  with  such  exceeding 
sweetness  that  they  still  get  credit  for  that  "  amiabil- 
ity" which  is  counted  the  utmost  charm  of  our  sex. 
How  far  it  is  so — whether  a  creature  who  can  neither 
take  care  of  herself  nor  anybody  else,  neither  decide 
for  herself  nor  anybody  else,  is  tit  to  be  a  wife  and 
mother,  even  if  not  after  the  severe  pattern  of  the 
mother  of  the  Gracchi,  I  will  not  attempt  to  argue. 
All  I  can  say  is,  I  would  rather  see  a  son  of  mine  mar- 
ried to  the  "strongest-minded"  woman  alive  than  to  a 
cony. 

Not  that  strength  consists  in  never  changing  one's 
mind,  in  the  mulish  theory,  "  I've  said  it,  and  I'll  stick 
to  it ;"  or  in  that  other  most  amusing  characteristic  of 
weak  people,  the  "  contrariness"  of  the  Irish  pig,  which, 
when  you  want  it  to  go  one  way,  obliges  you  to  pull  it 
by  the  tail  in  another  direction.  Strong  people  are  Sel- 
dom obstinate,  and  never  feel  it  the  least  humiliation 
to  change  their  minds  on  just  grounds.  The  courage 
which  can  frankly  say,  "I  retract;  I  was  mistaken," 
and  act  upon  it,  is  found  among  brave  men  and  wom- 
en ;  rarely  among  conies. 

Yet  what  worlds  of  misery  does  it  not  often  save,  es- 
pecially in  the  matter  of  marriage !  How  many  unions, 
rashly  planned,  are  as  madly  carried  out,  when  a  few 


81  CONIES. 

plain  words  would  have  prevented  the  wreck  of  two 
lives.  Far  be  it  from  me  to  defend  infidelity ;  but  I 
do  say,  seeing  we  are  all  liable  to  err — liable,  alas,  even 
to  change! — that  an  honest  broken  engagement  is  more 
honorable,  either  to  man  or  woman,  than  the  false  hon- 
or of  a  deceitful,  loveless  marriage. 

Another  most  trying  thing  about  conies  is,  that  they 
are  often  such  exceedingly  good  people,  in  a  negative 
way.  You  never  can  pick  a  hole  in  them ;  they  are 
self-devoted  and  self-sacrificing;  that  is,  they  will  let 
themselves  be  killed  by  inches,  when  a  little  whole- 
some resistance  would  have  saved  them  for  long  and 
useful  lives.  They  are  ready  to  go  on  till  they  drop, 
when,  by  stopping  in  time,  they  need  never  have  dropped 
at  all.  Stronger  natures,  who  have  to  stand  by  power- 
less and  see  all  this,  find  it  very  trying,  and  would  pre- 
fer a  little  honest  badness  to  that  insane  goodness  which 
results  in  the  good  being  altogether  a  prey  to  the  wick- 
ed. Still,  often  the  tables  are  turned ;  as  I  said,  there 
is  no  victimizer  like  your  amiable  cony,  who,  without 
having  the  strength  or  the  courage  to  be  happy,  has  yet 
the  power  to  make  other  people  most  thoroughly  mis- 
erable. 

How  is  this  to  be  remedied  ?  for  a  fault-finder  without 
a  remedy  is  like  a  doctor  who  can  diagnose,  but  not  heal, 
or  attempt  to  heal. 

So  many  co-agents  of  fate  or  circumstances,  and  qual- 


CONIES.  85 

Jties  mental  and  physical,  inherent  or  hereditary,  com- 
bine to  produce  what  we  call  weakness  of  character, 
that  wholesale  condemnation  of  it  is  as  useless  as  it  is 
cruel.  Besides,  we  have  always  to  fight  against  the  old 
superstition  that  strength  is  a  dangerous  quality,  except 
in  men.  A  child  with  a  will  of  its  own  was  the  horror 
of  our  forefathers ;  and  to  break  the  will  of  our  little 
ones  used  to  be  considered  one  of  the  first  duties  of  a 
parent. 

Things  are  changing  now ;  yet  what  a  load  of  scorn, 
vituperation,  and  ominous  warning  has  been  heaped 
upon  the  devoted  head  of  at  least  one  parent  I  know, 
who  persists  in  not  exacting  from  her  child  blind  obe- 
dience, and  in  believing  that  to  whip  a  child  degrades 
equally  itself  and  its  punisher!  "A  rod  for  the  fool's 
back,"  if  you  will ;  but  let  it  be  the  grown-up  fool,  who 
has  so  misused  his  authority  that  he  needs  to  enforce  it 
by  whipping.  Exceptional  instances  may  arise,  impos- 
sible to  judge ;  but,  as  a  rule,  I  never  hear  of  flogging 
being  the  established  system  of  a  family  without  feel- 
ing that  it  ought  previously  to  be  administered  to  the 
parents. 

May  it  not  be  that  the  harsh  rule  of  fear  and  the  re- 
straint it  induces,  destroying  all  individuality  of  char- 
acter, is  the  primary  cause  of  that  numerous  race  which 
I  have  termed  conies  ?"  Having  never  been  accustomed 
to  think  or  decide  for  themselves,  they  never  do  it; 


66  CONIES. 

taught  from  infancy  that  "a  will  of  one's  own"  Is  a 
bad  thing,  a  dangerous  thing,  they  have  never  used  it. 
It  is  so  much  less  trouble  to  lean  on  other  people — to 
get  other  people  to  decide  and  act  for  one.  And,  then, 
dependence  is  so  interesting;  so  charming — especially 
in  women.  Thus  the  "feeble  race"  begin  their  career, 
and  grow  gradually  feebler  year  by  year,  causing  more 
and  more  trouble  to  all  about  them,  until  at  last  a  sigh 
of  relief  mingles  with  the  tear  of  due  regret  as  their 
affectionate  friends  shovel  the  mould  over  them.  At 
least,  they  will  burden  nobody  any  more. 

But  why  should  they  ever  have  done  it?  Why  not 
recognize  from  earliest  infancy  that  "a  will  of  one's 
own"  is  not  a  curse,  but  a  great  blessing,  to  every  hu- 
man being.  That  is,  a  defensive,  not  an  aggressive 
will ;  which,  without  interfering  with  any  other,  has 
the  power  to  think,  decide,  and  act  for  one's  self,  there- 
by saving  a  world  of  trouble  to  one's  neighbors.  So 
far  from  being  repressed,  this  quality  ought  to  be  culti- 
vated as  much  as  possible.  A  year-old  infant  who,  if 
you  hold  out  to  it  a  handful  of  toys,  knows  exactly 
which  toy  it  wants,  snatches  at  it,  grasps  it,  and,  if  los- 
ing, weeps  after  it,  is  a  far  more  hopeful  specimen  of 
humanity  than  the  irresolute  child  who  never  knows 
what  it  wants,  nor  how  to  keep  what  it  has. 

True,  you  will  need  to  teach  the  small  creature  not 
to  scratch  and  not  to  cry.  You  must  help  it  to  govern 


CONIES.  87 

its  own  will,  and  even  to  learn  the  last  lesson  of  true 
bravery,  to  resign  its  own  will  should  necessity  arise. 

And  there  is  always  a  transition  stage,  when  the  will 
is  strong  and  the  reason  weak,  during  which  your  child 
will  give  you  a  good  deal  of  trouble,  and  you  will  have 
to  exercise  not  only  great  patience,  but  that  wise  author- 
ity which  superiors  must  always  have  over  inferiors,  for 
the  inferiors'  good — a  very  different  thing  from  mere 
tyranny.  But  wait,  and  you  will  have  your  reward. 
If,  instead  of  merely  controlling  a  child,  you  can  teach 
it  to  control  itself,  you  will  have  made  it  into  a  higher 
human  being,  and  benefited  both  it  and  yourself  for  the 
rest  of  its  life. 

It  may  be  heresy — many  old-fashioned  people  will 
think  it  is  so — but  I  believe  we  ought  to  encourage  in 
all  children,  from  the  first  dawn  of  reason,  a  reasonable 
free-will,  to  be  exercised,  whenever  possible,  in  all  un- 
important things,  and  in  the  more  important,  as  reason 
and  common-sense  develop.  I  would  allow  children  to 
choose  their  own  clothes,  presents:  even,  with  limita- 
tion, their  own  companions.  I  would  teach  them  never 
to  lean  where  they  can  stand  upright ;  never  to  ask  an- 
other person  to  decide  for  them  what  they  can  decide 
for  themselves,  or  to  do  for  them  what  they  are  able  to 
do  for  themselves ;  that  at  all  ages  and  in  all  crises,  if 
we  must  act,  let  us  act  without  troubling  other  people ; 
if  we  must  suffer — alas !  it  is  hard  to  teach  a  child  this, 


88  CONIES. 

and  jet  we  ought — let  us,  as  much  as  possible,  learn  to 
suffer  alone,  without  inflicting  needless  pain  upon  other 
people. 

Sharp  discipline  this.  It  is  even  more  difficult  to 
guide  a  will  than  to  break  it;  but  what  a  different  re- 
sult we  shall  find  if  we  succeed !  Instead  of  feeble, 
helpless,  useless  creatures — conies,  in  short — we  shall 
have  made  our  children  into  capable  human  beings, 
whom  we  can  rely  on  and  trust  in ;  who  will  be  a  help 
to  us,  and  not  us  only,  through  the  thorny  paths  of  life ; 
whom,  if  such  be  God's  will,  we  may  even  leave,  with- 
out fear,  to  fight  the  world  without  us.  That  sharpest 
agony  of  parents,  to  die  and  leave  our  children  help- 
less, is  greatly  lessened  if  in  our  lifetimes  we  are  able 
to  make  them  helpful,  by  urging  them  to  independence, 
not  dependence ;  teaching  decision  instead  of  indecision, 
and  brave  action  instead  of  passive  endurance.  They 
may  make  a  few  mistakes — we  all  do — and  some  ene- 
mies ;  the  weak  often  secretly  hate  the  strong,  even 
while  making  use  of  them ;  but,  in  the  long-run,  the 
strong  have  the  best  of  it.  Hard-worked  they  may  be ; 
well-abused  they  will  certainly  be;  but  they  will  lead 
not  only  the  most  useful,  but  the  happiest,  of  lives. 

"  Fallen  chernb,  to  be  weak  is  miserable, 
Doing  or  suffering," 

says  Milton's  angel.     He  might  well  say  it  to  all  conies. 


CONIES.  89 

Still,  let  ns  not  curtail  our  text :  "  The  conies  are  but 
a  feeble  folk,  yet  they  make  their  nests  in  the  rock." 

So  they  do.  They  always  find  somebody  or  other  to 
help  them,  and  very  comfortable  "  nests  "  do  they  some- 
times make,  chiefly  at  other  people's  expense.  No  mat- 
ter. It  is  to  the  credit  of  human  nature,  and  perhaps 
for  the  education  of  human  nature,  that  this  should  be 
so.  Let  us  not  grudge  them  their  shelter,  poor  things ! 
Let  us  rather  rejoice  that  there  are  some  "  stony  rocks  " 
which  will  serve  as  "  a  refuge  for  the  conies." 

Still,  one  would  prefer  not  to  be — and,  above  all,  one 
would  try  to  save  one's  children  from  being — a  cony. 
For  we  must  never  forget  they  will  be  children  only 
for  a  few  years ;  men  and  women  afterwards,  when  we 
are  sleeping  in  dust.  Better  far  than  teaching  them  to 
obey  us  is  it  to  try  and  put  into  them  that  obedience  to 
absolute  right  which  is,  in  truth,  obedience  unto  God. 
Safer,  even,  than  our  wisest  decision  for  them  is  it  to 
implant  in  them  strength  and  courage  to  decide  for 
themselves. 


DECAYED  GENTLEWOMEN 


DECAYED  GENTLEWOMEN. 


I  WAS  lately  paying  a  call,  which  distance  and  occupa- 
tion make  only  too  rare,  011  an  old  friend  whose  servant, 
after  long  detention  at  the  front  door,  showed  me,  hesi- 
tatingly, into  the  drawing-room.  There  the  mistress, 
who  is  a  little  near-sighted,  rose  up  with  an  air  of  frigid 
dignity  quite  startling.  "  Oh,"  cried  she,  when  she  saw 
who  it  was,  and  came  forward  with  an  air  of  great  re- 
lief, "  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  thought  you  were  a  decayed 
gentlewoman." 

These  words,  so  unlike  herself,  so  foreign  to  the  genial 
kindly  nature  which  I  and  all  the  world  know  her  to 
possess,  were  still  surprising — nay,  more  than  surprising 
— till  she  explained  that  the  day  before  the  servant  had 
ushered  in  a  large  stout  personage,  half  showily,  half 
shabbily  dressed,  who  planted  herself  in  the  centre  of 
the  room,  and,  folding  her  arms,  opened  communication 
by  saying,  in  a  tone  that  might  have  overwhelmed  any 
other  than  the  resolute  and  self-possessed  little  lady  be- 
fore her,  "Madam,  I  ham  a  decayed  gentlewoman." 
Laughing  heartily,  I  agreed  that  my  friend  had  only 


94  DECAYED   GENTLEWOMEN. 

taken  wise  precautions  to  keep  me  out,  together  with 
the  whole  body  of  decayed  gentlewomen. 

Another  circumstance  happened  to  myself  a  week 
after.  I  found  in  my  drawing-room  two  unknown  vis- 
itors— "ladies"  they  would  probably  call  themselves — 
the  elder  of  whom,  mentioning  her  name  (which  I  had 
merely  heard  of,  and  not  too  satisfactorily,  very  long 
ago),  said,  "  I  have  taken  the  liberty  of  calling  upon  you 
to  ask  if  you  will  help  to  educate  my  daughter."  Yeri- 
ly,  some  people  do  "  take  liberties !"  The  child's  pro- 
genitors had  been  gentlefolks  a  quarter  of  a  century 
ago,  Now,  looking  from  her  to  the  mother,  I  felt  that 
the  only  education  she  was  fitted  for  was  that  of  a 
kitchen-maid. 

But  the  ludicrous  side  of  the  question  fades  into  seri- 
ousness and  sadness  when  we  consider  how  many  women, 
gently  born  and  reared,  unaccustomed  to  anything  but 
contented  idleness,  will  have  in  these.hard  times  either 
to  work  or  to  starve,  or  to  sink  into  the  condition  of  a 
"decayed  gentlewoman."  This  must  always  be,  more 
or  less.  So  long  as  the  world  contains  extravagant  or 
unprincipled  men,  weak,  incapable  women,  and  children 
who  come  unwelcomed,  unblessed  —  alas!  they  never 
asked  to  be  born,  poor  lambs — there  are  sure  to  be  a  large 
number  of  these  sad  excrescences  on  society,  whom  the 
hard-hearted  mock  at,  the  tender-hearted  pity,  but  both 
feel  to  be  a  burden,  not  to  say  a  nuisance  indescribable. 


DECAYED   GENTLEWOMEN.  95 

We  all  know  her  well  enough,  by  report  or  by  expe- 
rience— not  the  "  poor  "  or  "  reduced,"  but  the  "  de- 
cayed," gentlewoman,  whose  whole  appearance  bespeaks 
a  tacit  acquiescence  in  that  decay.  She  has  a  more  than 
shabbiness,  a  mouldiness  of  apparel,  remarkable  for  but- 
tons missing  and  never  replaced,  flounces  torn  and  left 
unmended,  gay  but  crumpled  ribbons,  and  half-crushed 
artificial  flowers.  That  stitch  in  time  which  saves  nine 
has  evidently  not  been  her  peculiarity.  Yet  she  struggles 
feebly  after  the  fashion,  and  her  manner  has  a  sort  of 
deprecatory  gentility,  as  if  she  were  always  looking 
back  upon  those  better  days  which  she  is  supposed  to 
have  seen,  instead  of  forward  to  that  future  which  every 
human  being  has,  and  in  his  own  hands  too,  until  he 
dies.  But  our  decayed  gentlewoman  has  no  idea  of  dy- 
ing, her  vitality  being  in  the  exaptly  opposite  ratio  to 
her  powers  of  usefully  employing  it.  Her  enjoyment 
— nay,  pride — in  her  own  misfortunes  is  deep  and  unal- 
loyed. "  I  ham  a  decayed  gentlewoman,"  she  asserts 
(with  or  without  the  k),  and  plants  herself  at  our  fire- 
side, in  a  composed  and  undoubting  appeal  to  Provi- 
dence— or  us — to  take  care  of  her. 

Let  me  not  be  harsh.  I  know  there  are,  and  must 
always  be,  a  certain  number  of  poor  souls  who  cannot 
take  care  of  themselves ;  who  enter  existence  without  a 
backbone,  as  one  may  say,  and  from  birth  to  death  are 
sure  to  hang  helplessly  upon  somebody  or  other.  Many 


U6  DECAYED   GENTLEWOMEN. 

are  amiable,  well-meaning ;  some  are  even  attractive  in 
their  way,  and,  like  sweet-pease  and  other  feeble  vege- 
tables, constantly  succeed  in  finding  a  stout  pole  to  climb 
on,  till  the  support  grows  weary  and  fails,  and  then  they 
bestow  their  charming  incapacity  upon  somebody  else. 
Alas !  there  must  be  always  one  section  of  the  commu- 
nity destined  to  fall  a  dead  weight  on  the  rest ;  but  is  it 
not  desirable  to  reduce  that  section  as  much  as  possible  ? 
And — how  ? 

"  God  helps  those  who  help  themselves."  So,  as  a 
rule,  should  men — cruel  as  it  may  seem  to  say  this.  But 
the  exceptions  to  that  rule  must  always  be  so  numerous 
— the  young,  the  old,  the  sick,  the  sorrowful — that  we 
need  never  fear  being  turned  into  barbarians  by  the 
practice  of  it.  There  are  those  whom  we  are  bound  to 
help  and  glad  to  help,  while  their  necessity  lasts.  Not 
an  hour  longer.  Infinitely  more  harm  is  done  by  that 
lazy  pity  which  prefers  almsgiving  to  taking  .trouble 
than  by  the  righteous  hardness  which  amidst  its  utmost 
benevolence  never  loses  sight  of  the  primal  law,  "  If  a 
man  will  not  work,  neither  shall  he  eat." 

Nor  a  woman  neither;  for  the  old  creed  that  our  sex 
must  always  be  dependent  on  the  other  has  become  a 
creed  outworn.  First,  because  there  are  not  enough  of 
males  to  protect  us ;  and,  secondly,  because  many  of 
them  are  quite  incapable  of  doing  it.  Generally  speak- 
ing, a  woman  at  any  age  out  of  teens,  being  well  edu- 


DECAYED   GENTLEWOMEN.  97 

cated,  prudent,  and  possessed  of  a  tolerable  amount  of 
common-sense  and  ordinary  "gumption,"  can  take  care 
of  herself  fully  as  well  as  any  man  can  do  it  for  her. 
And,  except  in  the  love  phase  of  life — when  help  is  so 
delicious  and  helplessness  so  sweet — most  men  prefer  a 
woman  who  will  and  can  take  care  of  herself.  It  saves 
them  a  world  of  trouble.  Much  as  they  admire  a 
"  gentlewoman,"  they  are  the  very  last  to  tolerate  her 
when  she  becomes  "  decayed." 

What  is  the  origin  of  the  term,  and  the  cause  of  the 
thing  ?  for  we  shall  find  both  very  near  together.  First, 
let  us  define  what  we  mean  by  a  gentlewoman.  A 
woman  gentle  (or  gentille,  for  the  French  word  equally 
expresses  it),  in  whom,  therefore,  no  external  circum- 
stances can  affect  the  internal  quality  of  gentillesse. 
She  may  sew  and  spin,  bake  and  brew,  as  her  great- 
grandmothers  did ;  or  she  may  earn  her  honest  bread  in 
any  of  the  independent  modern  ways  which  might  have 
startled  a  good  deal  those  worthy  ancestresses.  But,  be 
she  poor  as  a  church  mouse,  or  obliged  to  toil  like  any 
negro  slave,  she  will  still  remain  herself.  All  she  does 
will  be  done  like  a  lady,  and  nothing  she  can  do  will 
ever  make  her  less  than  a  lady.  We  should  strike  at 
the  root  of  many  evils  if  we  could  put  this  as  a  fixed 
idea  into  the  heads  and  hearts  of  our  growing-up  girls, 
"  Once  a  lady,  always  a  lady." 

But,  alas !  ladyhood  is  no  defence  against  hard  fort- 
5 


98  DECAYED   GENTLEWOMEN. 

une.  During  the  past  year,  how  many  hundreds  of 
tenderly  reared  women  in  England  and  Scotland  have, 
without  any  fault  of  their  own,  been  cast  adrift  penni- 
less, obliged  to  earn  their  daily  bread,  or  to  eat  the  bit- 
ter bread  of  charity.  What  is  to  be  done  with  them  ? 
Many  are  young  enough  to  work,  and  willing  enough  to 
work ;  but  they  do  not  know  how.  They  have  been 
brought  up  in  the  belief  that  to  do  nothing  is  the  natu- 
ral right  of  womanly  gentility.  In  their  terror  of  "  any- 
thing menial,"  they  see  no  chance  for  them  except  to 
become  governesses;  failing  that,  since  teaching  requires 
not  only  education,  but  the  faculty  of  imparting  it,  they 
sink  into  "companions."  A  few  feebly  attempt  to 
practise  art ;  more  than  a  few — and  those  are  the  most 
helpless  of  all — struggle  at  literature. 

Only  professional  authors  know  how  numerous,  and 
how  insanely  credulous,  are  the  amateur  authors  who 
believe  that,  wanting  money,  they  can  earn  it  by  writ- 
ing, or  that  the  want  of  money  constitutes  a  reason  for 
writing ;  also — still  sadder  delusion  ! — that  being  backed 
by  a  known  author  is,  to  an  unknown  one,  be  his  or  her 
merit  what  it  may,  a  royal  road  to  success.  To  us  who 
know  how  hard  that  road  is,  and  to  how  little  it  leads, 
most  piteous  are  the  appeals.  "  I  see  many  a  story  in 
print  no  better  than  mine,"  says  one.  Most  true ;  peri- 
odicals are  flooded  with  rubbish,  but  much  of  it  is  never 
paid  for.  "  Surely  I  can  make  something  by  my  poe- 


DECAYED   GENTLEWOMEN.  99 

try,"  pleads  another ;  "  I  have  written  poetry  all  my 
life !"  And  how  can  one  suggest  that  when  a  person 
has  "  written  all  his  life,"  and  never  been  heard  of  by 
the  world,  the  chances  are  he  never  will  be  ?  For  true 
capacity  in  authorship — I  carefully  avoid  the  much  mis- 
applied word  "  genius  " — is  irrepressible.  It  forces  its 
way,  like  water,  to  its  own  level,  through  all  temporary 
hindrances.  Literature,  like  any  other  form  of  art,  is  a 
trade — a  profession,  and  must  be  systematically  learned 
and  worked  at  as  such.  Yet  none  do  really  great  work 
save  those  who  bring  to  it  neither  the  lazy  indifference 
of  the  amateur  nor  the  patience  of  the  mere  bread-win- 
ner, but  something  beyond  both — the  divine  impulse 
which  no  outside  circumstances  can  either  repress  or  im- 
part. Kindly  adversity  may  show  a  poor  gentlewoman 
that  she  possesses  this  undeveloped  power,  and  so  teach 
her  to  become  an  author ;  but  no  real  author  was  ever 
manufactured  out  of  the  impecuniosity  of  a  decayed 
gentlewoman. 

There  has  been  a  great  deal  said  of  late  about  lady- 
helps.  The  idea  seemed  at  first  admirable,  but  its  work- 
ing-out has  not  been  easy  or  successful.  First,  because 
the  lady-helps  have  generally  been  discovered  to  be  not 
ladies  at  all,  but  persons  belonging  to  the  semi-genteel 
class,  considering  themselves  above  domestic  service, 
yet  from  their  inherent  want  of  refinement,  as  well  as 
of  education,  unable  to  get  into  a  higher  sphere — just 


100  DECAYED   GENTLEWOMEN. 

as  one  sees  continually  among  the  ranks  of  governesses 
many  young  people  who,  from  both  their -antecedents 
and  their  upbringing,  ought  to  have  stood  behind 
counters  or  swept  rooms ;  and,  if  they  did  this,  and  did 
it  thoroughly,  would  have  been  much  more  respected 
and  worthy  of  respect  than  they  are  now.  Secondly, 
because  lady-helps  and  ordinary  servants  find  it  almost 
impossible  to  amalgamate.  The  really  good  cook  or 
housemaid  knows  her  work,  and  probably  does  it  much 
better  than  the  lady,  of  whom  she  will  feel  herself  at 
once  the  superior,  and  yet,  with  a  lurking  sense  of  angry 
pride,  also  the  inferior. 

A  friend  of  mine,  most  enthusiastic  on  the  subject, 
soon  discovered  this  fact,  and  wrote  me  that  she  had 
been  obliged  to  remodel  her  household  and  take  lady- 
helps  only.  She  was  full  of  hope  concerning  her  nurse 
and  housemaid  (a  clergyman's  two  daughters)  and  her 
cook  (a  physician's  widow).  Earnestly  she  begged  I 
would  come  down  and  admire  the  perfection  of  the 
menage.  But  a  few  weeks  later  she  begged  me  to  de- 
fer my  visit,  as  she  was  stranded,  domestically,  for  the 
time.  The  clerical  young  ladies  had  turned  out  not 
only  incompetent,  but  impertinent ;  the  doctor's  widow, 
though  a  first-rate  cook — so  good,  indeed,  that  she  might 
have  begun  life  in  that  capacity  (as  was  possible) — be- 
guiled her  leisure  moments  by  making  love  to  the  gar- 
dener's "  boy."  In  deep  despair,  my  friend  vowed  she 


DECAYED   GENTLEWOMEN.  101 

would  rather  suffer  the  evils  of  ordinary  servants  than 
attempt  lady-helps  again. 

Still,  her  experience  may  be  exceptional.  I  have 
known  instances  where  the  plan  has  succeeded  entire- 
ly, especially  in  nurseries.  Lately  I  saw  an  advertise- 
ment for  a  "  mother's  help,"  which  probably  meant  that 
the  advertiser  wanted  to  get  a  governess  for  nurse- 
maid's wages;  still,  the  idea  was  not  .bad.  Any  one 
who  sees  the  sort  of  girls  to  whom  mothers  trust,  and 
say  they  are  obliged  to  trust,  not  only  their  babies,  but 
their  growing -up  daughters,  must  own  that  a  real 
"mother's  help,"  neither  nurse,  governess,  nor  lady's 
maid,  but  a  combination  of  all  three — in  fact,  a  sort  of 
amateur  elder  sister  or  maiden  aunt — would  be  invalu- 
ble.  And  the  comfort  she  was  to  others  would  react 
upon  herself. 

To  those  who  have  seen  troubles,  or  have  come  down 
in  the  world,  the  society  of  children  is  often  far  easier 
than  that  of  grown-up  people.  They  never  hurt  or 
bore  or  irritate,  as  "  grown-ups  "  often  do.  Their  in- 
nocent love  and  childish  confidence  pour  balm  into  a 
sore  heart.  And,  besides,  there  is  a  feeling  of  being  of 
use,  of  importance  in  the  world — of  casting  a  daily  seed 
which  can  be  watched  springing  up  to  bear  fruit  in  fut- 
ure days.  I  can  imagine,  even  for  herself,  that  the  po- 
sition of  a  nurse  who  knew  herself  a  gentlewoman,  and 
therefore  felt  humiliated  by  nothing  which  she  did  for 


102  DECAYED   GENTLEWOMEN. 

her  little  charges,  whose  equal  she  was,  would,  in  any 
kindly  and  honorable  family,  be  more  than  endurable — 
desirable.  But  this  would  depend  mainly  upon  herself, 
and  in  lesser  degree  upon  the  sort  of  family  into  whose 
arms,  or  clutches,  she  happened  to  fall. 

But  whether  or  not.  the  experiment  of  lady-helps 
might  answer  out  in  the  world,  there  is  one  form  in 
which  it  would  jiot  fail — at  home.  1  once  met — it  was 
at  a  garden-party  —  a  graceful,  accomplished  woman, 
who  introduced  her  three  daughters,  all  so  much  after 
the  mother's  type  that  I  could  not  help  admiring  them. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  with  a  tender  pride,  "  I  think  my 
girls  are  nice  girls,  and  so  useful,  too.  We  are  not  rich, 
and  we  have  nine  children ;  so  we  told  the  elder  girls 
they  would  have  either  to  turn  out  and  earn  their  bread 
abroad,  or  stay  at  home  and  do  the  work  of  the  house. 
They  chose  the  latter.  We  keep  only  one  servant  for 
rough  work,  and  my  girls  take  it  by  turns  to  be  cook, 
housemaid,  and  parlor-maid.  In  the  nursery,  of  course  " 
(happy  mother  who  could  say  "  of  course !"),  "  they  are 
all  in  all  to  their  little  brothers  and  sisters." 

"  But  how  about  education  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  the  work  being  divided  among  so  many,  we 
find  time  for  lessons  too.  Some  we  can  afford  to  pay 
for,  and  then  the  elders  teach  the  younger  ones.  *  Where 
there's  a  will  there's  a  way.'  My  girls  are  not  igno- 
ramuses, or  recluses  either.  Look  at  them  now." 


DECAYED   GENTLEWOMEN.  103 

And  as  I  watched  the  gracious,  graceful  damsels  in 
their  linen  dresses  and  straw  hats,  home-manufactured, 
but  as  pretty  as  any  of  the  elegant  toilets  there,  I  saw 
no  want  in  them,  quite  the  contrary.  They  looked  so 
happy,  too ;  so  gay,  and  at  ease. 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  smiling  mother,  "  it  is  because 
they  are  always  busy;  they  never  have  time  to  fret 
and  mope,  especially  about  themselves.  I  do  believe 
my  girls  are  the  merriest,  happiest  girls  alive." 

I  could  well  imagine  it.  Highly  as  I  esteem  my  own 
sex — believing  honestly  that  the  average  woman,  on  the 
whole,  is  better  than  the  average  "man,  though  the  ideal 
man  and  woman  are  probably  both  equal — still  I  must 
confess  that  we  have  our  faults,  and  some  of  them  are 
bad  enough.  I  have  heard  men  say  that  they  "  never 
knew  a  woman  who  had  any  notion  of  time,"  who,  for 
instance,  could  state  a  train  correctly — in  female  minds 
the  10.32  always  sinking  to  the  10.30,  or  the  "  ten  some- 
thing or  other."  Men  do  not  love  them  the  less  for 
this,  or  for  many  worse  weaknesses,  while  they  are 
young  and  charming ;  it  is  a  different  thing  when  they 
grow  old,  unlovely,  and  fall  into  the  preliminary  stage 
of  that  mournful  decayedness  of  which  I  am  speaking. 

Inaccuracy,  desultoriness,  and  general  muddleness  are 
qualities  which  increase  rather  than  diminish  with  years; 
and  I  am  bound  to  say  that,  early  or  late,  women  are 
more  prone  to  them  than  men.  A  friend  of  mine,  oc« 


104  DECAYED    GENTLEWOMEN. 

cupied  in  a  branch  of  art  both  pleasant  and  lucrative, 
which  she  has  taken  a  world  of  pains  to  form  into  a 
school  of  instruction  for  the  employment  of  women, 
tells  me  she  fears  that,  after  all,  she  shall  be  forced  to 
take  as  pupils  and  apprentices  only  boys. 

"  Of  all  the  ladies,  old  and  young,  who  have  come  to 
me,"  she  states,  "  not  one  has  had  the  persistence  to 
work  with  me  a  whole  year  —  the  time  necessary  to 
make  their  work  valuable  and  worth  paying  for.  They 
come  here  for  a  few  weeks  or  months,  then  gradually 
their  attendance  becomes  irregular,  on  one  excuse  or 
other,  and  at  last  the/  give  it  up.  Girls  seem  to  have 
no  idea  of  'going  to  business,'  as  boys  are  obliged  to  do, 
working  steadily  on  every  day  and  all  day  long,  wheth- 
er they  like  it  or  not.  Alas !  I  am  very  sorry,  but  I 
fear,  unless  I  wish  to  lose  my  business  altogether,  I 
must  employ  boys." 

May  we  not  find  here  the  secret  of  many  a  sad  story ! 
Out  of  the  house,  as  in  it,  girls  are  brought  up  without 
any  notion  of  the  duty  of  work — persistent,  consecutive 
work ;  so  that  even  when  it  is  found  for  them  they  can- 
not do  it.  For  myself,  after  an  experience  of  life  nei- 
ther very  small  nor  very  brief,  I  must  candidly  confess 
that  my  difficulty  in  trying  to  help  my  own  sex  has 
been  not  so  much  to  find  work  as  workers — women  who 
can  be  relied  on,  first,  to  know  how  really  to  do  what 
they  profess,  and,  next,  to  have  conscientiousness  and 


DECAYED   GENTLEWOMEN.  105 

persistency  in  doing  it.  Is  this  defect  (a  very  grave 
one)  owing  to  natural  infirmity  or  defective  education  ? 
Being  a  woman,  I  incline  to  believe  the  latter.  We  are 
not  radically  inferior  to  men,  but  only  different  from 
them.  Let  us  once  find  suitable  work  and  be  taught  to 
do  it,  and  I  think  we  can  do  it  as  well  as  most  men — as 
thoroughly,  as  carefully,  and  perhaps  even  more  earnest- 
ly, for  we  bring  to  it  the  enthusiasm  of  an  exceptional 
career  and  exceptional  training.  Were  tUis  training  not 
exceptional,  but  universal;  were  we  to  bring  up  our 
girls  as  well  as  our  boys  to  what  is  called  business  hab- 
its, punctuality,  accuracy,  the  independent  use  and  em- 
ployment of  money  ;  accustoming  them  from  childhood 
to  keep  accounts,  and  know  as  much  as  boys,  in  their 
way,  of  the  general  business  of  the  world ;  above  all, 
impressing  upon  them  that  to  work  is  the  lot  and  duty 
of  woman  as  well  as  man,  be  she  rich  or  poor,  married 
or  single — we  might  have  fewer  of  those  melancholy 
wrecks  of  all  dignity  and  loveliness  in  decayed  gentle- 
women. 

Many  reduced  ladies  owe  their  condition  to  misfort- 
une solely,  but  a  good  many  more  to  their  own  crass 
ignorance  and  folly,  or  the  beguilement  of  "  too  much 
faith  in  man."  For  instance,  one  simple-hearted  soul, 
asked  by  a  trusted  friend  to  lend  him  "  a  few  hundreds," 
sends  him  back  the  required  sum — her  little  all — requir- 
ing not  even  an  I  O  U ;  for  he  tells  her  "  such  are  not 
5* 


106  DECAYED   GENTLEWOMEN. 

necessary  between  friends,"  and  he  shall  repay  the 
money  directly.  Possibly  he  means  to  do  this,  but  he 
uses  it  in  business  to  stop  a  gap,  becomes  bankrupt,  and 
she  penniless.  A  second,  after  years  of  toil,  has  laid  by 
a  little  income  for  her  old-age;  but  she  has. a  brother 
or  cousin  or  some  other  male  relative  who  wants  it,  asks 
and  gets  it$  of  course  loses  it,  and  she  ends  her  days  in 
poverty,  or  a  pensioner  on  the  sympathy  of  friends.  A 
third,  perhaps,  has  all  her  money  invested ;  but,  as  she 
"  knows  nothing  of  business,"  she  leaves  it  in  the  hands 
of  a  trustee,  asking  no  questions,  only  blindly  receiving, 
year  by  year,  what  he  gives  her,  till  some  day  she  wakes 
up  to  find  there  is  nothing  to  receive.  He  has  muddled 
it  all  away,  perhaps  by  carelessness,  perhaps  by  some- 
thing worse ;  but  still  it  is  gone,  and  there  is  nothing 
left  for  her  but  to  work — or  starve.  While  a  fourth — 
alas!  this  case  is  but  one  of  hundreds  within  the  past 
year — having  her  money  in  her  own  hands,  takes  the 
advice  of  some  male  counsellor  equally  ignorant  or 
indifferent  (men  think  so  lightly  of  women's  affairs), 
invests  it  where  it  will  bring  in  some  large  tempting 
percentage,  which  it  does  for  a  few  years;  then  comes 
a  collapse,  and  it  makes  itself  wings  and  flies  away. 

Now,  had  these  hapless  ladies  known  two  simple 
facts,  understood  by  every  man  of  business — first,  that  an 
extra  high  rate  of  interest  implies  always  a  correspond- 
ing risk  of  capital ;  secondly,  that  no  money  should  be 


DECAYED   GENTLEWOMEN.  107 

lent  to  the  dearest  friend  or  nearest  relative  without  the 
same  security  being  exacted  as  from  a  stranger;  and  that 
no  honorable  man  would  borrow  money,  especially  from 
a  woman,  upon  any  other  terms :  had  they  known  this, 
they  might  have  escaped  those  afflictions  which  they 
meekly  term  "  the  will  of  God,"  but  which  come  solely 
from  the  folly  or  sin  of  man.  I  could  write  volumes  on 
this  subject,  having  seen  so  much  of  the  sufferings  of 
my  own  sex,  from  their  own  weakness  and  the  wicked- 
ness of  the  other,  that  I  feel,  like  Jonah,  "  I  do  well  to 
be  angry."  But  better  than  even  righteous  indignation 
against  wrong  are  the  attempts  of  prudent  people  to 
discover  its  remedy. 

Among  the  various  suggestions  to  save  women  from 
sinking  into  miserable  dependence  I  will  name  one  : 
that  those  who  still  have  health,  energy,  and  a  fair 
amount  of  capacity  should  embrace  a  calling  which  is 
as  exceptional  in  its  difficulties  as  in  its  rewards — name- 
ly, that  of  the  professional  sick-nurse.  Talking  once 
with  a  lady,  the  matron  of  a  hospital,  who  fulfilled  to  an 
almost  ideal  degree  that  honorable  position,.!  said  how 
different  was  the  ordinary  sick-nurse — the  "  Mrs.  Gamp" 
that  used  to  be,  though,  fortunately,  she  has  almost 
ceased  to  exist — from  Roman  Catholic  Soeurs  de  la 
Charite,  or  the  excellent  Petites  So3urs  des  Pauvres. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  "  it  is  because  they  do  their 
work,  as  the  beggars  say,  '  for  the  love  of  God.'  It  is 


108  DECAYED   GENTLEWOMEN. 

not  only  difficult,  but  impossible,  to  go  through  the  hard- 
ships and  fulfil  the  duties  of  a  nurse's  life  except  for  a 
higher  motive  than  mere  money." 

That  is  true ;  but  it  may  also,  and  very  allowably,  be 
done  for  money,  and  for  that  filliug-up  of  the  emptiness 
of  life  which  women  after  their  first  youth,  or  having 
gone  through  some  heavy  sorrow,  often  so  bitterly  feel. 
We  have  no  convents  for  them  to  refuge  in — and  pos- 
sibly wish  to  escape  from,  as  soon  as  time  has  softened 
down  or  worn  away  the  cause  that  drove  them  thither ; 
but  we  English  scarcely  value  enough  the  system  of 
nursing  sisterhoods,  whether  religious  or  secular  in  their 
character,  which  should  be  open  to  women  of  all  de- 
grees, educated  or  uneducated,  rich  or  poor.  All  who 
have  gone  through  the  agony  of  watching  serious  illness 
must  have  felt  how  exceedingly  difficult  it  is  to  get  a 
good  sick-nurse  —  a  woman  who,  to  the  rare  natural 
qualities  necessary  to  that  high  vocation,  adds  the  pro- 
fessional skill  which  experience  alone  can  give.  But,  if 
found,  her  value  is  priceless,  not  only  to  her  patient,  but 
to  the  whole  family. 

Nursing  is  an  instinct,  but  it  is  also  an  art.  It  re- 
quires to  be  learned  by  systematic  training,  which,  how- 
ever, is  now  supplied  in  almost  every  London  hospital, 
and  many  sisterhoods,  or  other  similar  homes,  where 
women  of  all  degrees  may  acquire  the  requisite  knowl- 
edge for  a  moderate  cost.  It  is  a  question,  too,  whether 


DECAYED   GENTLEWOMEN.  109 

those  most  useful  institutions,  cottage  hospitals,  which 
are  now  being  established  all  over  the  country,  might 
not  with  advantage  open  their  doors  for  the  reception 
of  two  or  three  permanent  nurses,  who  were  always  to 
be  found  there  if  wanted,  and  part  of  whose  wages 
should  be  paid  to  the  hospital  in  return  for  board,  lodg- 
ing, and  instruction,  prior  to  and  during  the  intervals  of 
work.  This,  however,  is  a  scheme  necessarily  immature, 
which  I  merely  throw  out  for  the  consideration  of  those 
who  have  time  and  power  to  follow  it  up.  It  might 
embrace  the  needs  of  many  poor  but  capable  women, 
"  ladies  "  or  not,  who  dislike  the  publicity  of  a  London 
hospital,  yet  are  anxious  to  work,  not  solely  for  money, 
but  for  that  pleasure  which  often  comes  not  till  later 
life,  though  never  too  late — the  pleasure  of  doing  good. 

The  third  and  last  division  of  my  subject  I  have  care- 
fully thought  over  before  committing  to  print.  Many 
well-meaning,  but  I  think  mistaken,  friends  have  ad- 
vised me  not  to  commit  it  to  print  at  all.  Wherefore  ? 
Why,  in  the  name  of  common-sense,  should  a  false  and 
foolish  delicacy  so  overcome  our  common-sense  that, 
while  vice  is  paraded  before  us  every  day — when,  as  a 
publisher  told  me  lately,  "  No  novel  will  sell  without 
some  spice  (i.  e.,  sin)  in  it " — the  mere  reference  to 
things  which  are  not  sinful  at  all,  but  the  sacred  mys- 
teries of  nature,  is  to  be  avoided  as  indecorous? 

I  have  spoken  of  the  careers  that  are  open  to  women, 


110  DECAYED   GENTLEWOMEN. 

without  their  trenching  upon  those  of  men,  which  is  in 
every  way  undesirable.  But  there  is  one  where  men 
have  been  allowed  to  trench  upon  ours — a  sphere  of 
usefulness  so  natural,  so  right,  so  especially  sacred  to 
women,  that  I  only  marvel  so  few  should  enter  upon  it, 
not  only  out  of  the  lower  but  the  educated  classes. 

An  ordinary  sick-nurse  must  prepare  herself  to  fight 
bravely  with  every  form  of  inevitable  and  hopeless  hu- 
man suffering.  But  there  is  one  form  of  hopeful  suffer- 
ing to  which  women  are  condemned  ;  in  which,  former- 
ly, only  fheir  own  sex  ministered  to  them.  Without 
opening  medical  discussions,  I  wish  to  give  it  as  my 
distinct  opinion — in  which  numbers  more  of  my  sex 
agree — that  women,  and  women  only,  should  be  em- 
ployed, not  merely  as  monthly  nurses,  but  (why  not  use 
the  old  Bible  word  ?)  as  midwives.  We  are  apt  to  for- 
get that  childbirth  is  not  a  disease,  but  a  natural  event, 
in  which  Nature  can  generally  take  care  of  herself,  if 
aided  by  care,  caution,  experience,  and,  above  all,  pa- 
tience. It  is  that  quality  of  patience — so  much  greater 
in  our  sex  than  the  other — which  makes  it  desirable,  if 
for  no  other  reason,  that  the  obstetric  art  should  fall  ex- 
clusively into  the  hands  of  women — not  ignorant,  but 
educated  women — who,  at  the  critical  hour  and  after- 
wards, can  use  their  brains  as  well  as  their  hearts,  their 
intelligence  and  sympathy  as  well  as  their  practical  skill 
and  experience. 


DECAYED    GENTLEWOMEN.  Ill 

Those  who  go  about  the  world — I  do  not  mean  the 
gay,  but  the  hard-working  and  much-suffering,  world — 
must  have  noticed  how  very  many  women  die  in  child- 
birth. Not  so  much  among  the  upper  classes,  who  have 
skilled  doctors  and  nurses,  or  the  lower,  who  have 
neither,  only  some  clever  old  woman,  who,  making  up 
in  experience  what  she  lacks  in  education,  brings  safely 
into  existence  half  the  population  of  a  village ;  but  the 
intermediate  class,  the  wives  of  clerks,  tradesmen,  or 
poor  gentlemen,  who  aim  at  having  the  dignity  of  doc- 
tor and  nurse,  but  can  only  afford  them  of  ah  inferior 
kind,  and  often  pay  with  their  lives  for  the  incapacity 
and  carelessness  of  both. 

It  is  for  these  that  an  educated  woman,  who  would 
be  at  once  a  trained  midwife  and  a  monthly  nurse, 
might  come  to  the  rescue,  lessening  rather  than  increas- 
ing the  heavy  expenses  which  in  many  families  make 
the  advent  of  every  child  a  dread  and  a  curse  rather 
than  a  blessing,  and  lessening  still  more  those  sad  fa- 
talities which  the  stricken  household  believes  to  be  the 
"  visitation  of  God,"  but  which  others  know  well  would 
not  have  happened,  did  not  need  to  happen,  except 
through  stolid  ignorance,  indifference,  or  culpable  neg- 
lect on  the  part  of  those  attending  the  sufferer.  And 
such  cases  are  only  too  common — commoner  than  most 
people  know,  because  naturally  it  is  to  everybody's  in- 
terest to  hush  them  up.  Alas !  many  of  us  might  say, 


112  DECAYED   GENTLEWOMEN. 

remembering  how  we  looked  in  hopeless  regret  on  some 
pale,  coffined  face,  taken  suddenly  away  in  the  midst  of 
youth  and  life,  "  She  did  not  die,  she  was  killed — simply 
killed." 

But,  setting  aside  these  exceptional  cases,  any  one 
who  has  seen  how  much  many  mothers  undergo,  during 
the  weeks  of  helplessness  when  they  are  shut  up  with 
some  coarse,  uneducated,  unsympathizing  nurse,  will 
appreciate  the  blessing  that  such  a  one  as  I  have  indi- 
cated would  be,  not  only  to  the  patient  herself,  but  to 
the  whole  family — one  who  would,  for  the  time  being, 
identify  herself  with  the  household  which  she  entered 
in  its  cloud  of  care,  and  leaves  in  that  sunshine  of  hope 
and  happiness  which  every  little  baby  ought  to  bring 
with  it.  Who  more  than  she  would  have  the  power  of 
making  herself  valued  and  beloved  by  both  parents  and 
children  —  passed  on  with  honor  from  one  grateful 
household  to  another  while  her  power  of  work  lasted  ? 
Gratitude  is  not  a  common  virtue;  yet  I  think  if  any 
human  being  might  find  it,  it  would  be  a  really  valuable 
monthly  nurse.  Happiness  is  not  the  portion  of  us  all ; 
most  women — especially  the  unmarried — must  be  con- 
tent with  vicarious  joys,  and  also  vicarious  sorrows. 
They,  above  all,  should  understand  that  to  be  loved  you 
must  make  yourselves  lovable ;  to  be  valued,  you  must 
prove  yourself  valuable.  Yet  I  tbink  most  old  maids 
and  childless  widows  might  draw  a  good  deal  of  real 


DECAYED   GENTLEWOMEN.  113 

happiness  out  of  such  a  career  as  that  I  suggest,  which 
has  in  it  so  many  elements  of  making  others  happy. 

"Whether  or  not  the  medical  profession  will  open  its 
doors  unrestrictedly  to  women  is  a  question  I  do  not  mean 
to  argue..  The  point  is  not  so  much  the  opening  of  the 
door  as  the  fitness  of  those  who  enter  it.  And  in  this 
case,  as  in  most  others,  the  universal  law,  the  survival 
of  the  fittest,  will  decide  the  whole  question  within  not 
too  many  years.  But  if  women  can  be  made  capable 
of  this  one  branch  of  the  profession,  I  believe  it  ought 
to  be  left  in  their  hands — a  state  of  things  which,  so  far 
from  being  novel  or  abnormal,  would  only  be  a  return 
to  the  "good  old  times."  I  have  no  means  of  abso- 
lutely proving  the  fact,  but  it  is  a  fact,  that  only  in  the 
last  generation  and  ours  have  male  accoucheurs  been 
accustomed  to  practise,  or  women  to  consider  their  ser- 
vices essential  to  safety.  :..  -. 

The  opening  of  such  a  career  would  give  a  future  to 
many  poor  gentlewomen  who,  still  in  middle  life,  with 
good  health,  good  sense,  and  good  courage,  wish  to  ed- 
ucate themselves  for  the  dignity  of  work  rather  than 
accept  the  humiliation  of  charity.  And  it  would  also 
supply  a  want,  and  furnish,  to  the  daughters  of  profes- 
sional men  especially,  the  only  "  woman's  right "  which 
it  is  advisable  to  impress^upon  our  girls  —  the  right 
of  independence ;  that  every  unmarried  woman  who 
does  not  inherit  an  income  ought  to  owe  it  to  neither 


114  DECAYED   GENTLEWOMEN. 

father,  brother,  nor  any  other  male  relation,  but  to 
earn  it. 

The  greai  mistake  of  the  last  generation — resulting 
in  so  many  "decayed  gentlewomen" — is,  that  parents 
have  not  been  wise  enough  to  see  this,  but  have  brought 
up  their  girls  to  be  mere  appendages  to  and  encum- 
brances on  the  boys;  spending  large  sums  on  their 
sons'  education,  and  thinking  that  the  daughters  would 
educate  themselves  ;  and,  if  not,  what  matter  ?  they  are 
sure  to  marry.  But  they  are  not  sure;  and,  even  if 
they  were,  is  not  marriage  a  partnership  ?  When  the 
wife  can  bring  in,  on  her  side,  either  money  or  the 
power  of  earning  it,  surely  it  is  better  for  the  husband, 
and  not  worse  for  her.  That  is,  provided  she  sacrifices 
none  of  the  home-duties,  which  make  her  half  of  the 
partnership  not  the  least  arduous,  to  that  independence 
which  no  honorable  man  would  wisli  to  deny  her.  I 
have  always  noticed  that  it  is  the  strongest,  the  wisest, 
and  the  tenderest  men  who  admit  and  uphold  this  doc- 
trine. Only  the  mean,  the  weak,  the  wicked  among 
mankind  are,  or  ever  need  be,  afraid  of  women.  And 
1  have  tried,  in  these  few  plain  words,  to  urge  women 
not  to  be  afraid  of  themselves—not  even  though  they 
have  suffered  that  cruel  "  coming  down  in  the  world  " 
which  often  seems  so  much  worse  to  the  victims  them- 
selves than  to  outsiders. 

Take  the  world  at  its  worst,  it  is  never  so  bad  but 


DECAYED    GENTLEWOMEN.  115 

that  it  knows  a  gentlewoman  when  it  finds  her,  and 
respects  her  accordingly,  if  she  continues  to  respect 
herself ;  ay,  even  though  she  has  sunk  to  lowest  depths 
of  poverty.  But,  ordinarily,  if  she  be  also  a  good 
woman,  she  never  does  so  sink,  for  hands  ready 
and  willing  are  sure  to  be  stretched  out  to  her. 
When  they  are  not,  when  she  drops  hopelessly  into 
the  condition  of  our  friend  the  decayed  gentlewom- 
an, depend  upon  it  there  has  been  a  "screw  loose" 
somewhere. 

Still,  poverty  may  come,  sickness  and  sorrow  forcing 
the  proudest  and  most  independent  lady  to  submit  to 
be  helped  by  some  one.  It  should  be  a  consolation  to 
know  that  this  help  can  be  accepted  in  such  a  way  as 
to  confer  a  positive  boon  on  its  bestower.  Of  all  life's 
joys,  none  has  so  peculiar  a  sweetness  as  the  power  of 
giving,  and  of  having  those  gifts  accepted  in  a  right 
spirit.  And  one  of  the  most  unlovely  qualities  that 
any  woman  can  have  is  the  angry  pride  that  accepts 
them  in  a  wrong  spirit,  and  rejects  indignantly  well- 
meant  kindness. 

There  were  once  two  women,  both  workingwomen, 
and  both  gentlewomen.  The  younger,  grieved  at  the 
shabbiness  of  her  friend's  winter  bonnet,  used  a  piece 
of  velvet  she  had  meant  for  her  own  in  surreptitiously 
making  one,  and  sending  it,  carefully  packed,  and  ad- 
dressed in  a  feigned  hand,  to  be  left  anonymously  at 


116  DECAYED   GENTLEWOMEN. 

the  elder  lady's  door.  Shortly  afterwards  the  latter 
appeared,  very  irate. 

"  What  do  you  think,  my  dear  ?  Some  one  has  had 
the  impertinence  to  send  me  a  bonnet !  How  dared 
any  one  suppose  I  wanted  a  bonnet?  As  if  I  would 
condescend  to  wear  an  anonymous  present !  What 
could  they  mean  ?" 

Meekly  the  girl  suggested  that  possibly  "they" 
meant  no  harm. 

"  But  it  was  harm.  It  was  impertinence.  Such  an 
ugly  bonnet,  too !  I  can't  send  it  back,  for  I  have  no 
idea  where  it  comes  from ;  but  I  would  never  wear  it." 

"  Then,"  the  other  asked,  "  what  do  you  mean  to  do 
with  it  2" 

"  My  dear,  the  very  instant  I  get  home,  I  shall  take 
a  pair  of  scissors  and  pick  it  to  pieces." 

The  young  friend  said  nothing — never  did  say  any- 
thing. The  dear  head  which  refused  to  put  on. the  vel- 
vet bonnet  has  long  slept  "  under  the  daisies,"  and  the 
kindly  heart  never  knew  the  pain  it  unwittingly  gave. 
But  this  little  tale  may  not  be  useless  to  some  who  call 
their  pride  independence,  and  their  self-assertion  self- 
respect. 

Nevertheless,  there  are  women — we  have  all  known 
such  —  who,  in  accepting  kindnesses,  actually  confer 
them.  These  are  they  whom  no  misfortune  can  sour,  no 
poverty  humiliate.  They  may  sink  from  their  thousands 


DECAYED   GENTLEWOMEN.  117 

a  year  to  hundreds,  or  even  to  tens,  but  they  never  lose 
any  real  dignity.  Everybody  respects,  them ;  every- 
body loves  them.  Friends  battle  for  the  pleasure  of 
their  company,  and  for  the  honor  of  giving  them  any 
help  they  may  require — sure  that  they  will  not  take  a 
farthing  more  than  they  do  require;  equally  sure  that 
what  they  really  need  will  be  accepted  in  a  spirit  so 
sweet,  so  simple  and  natural,  that  it  increases  instead 
of  diminishes  affection  on  both  sides.  For  they  re- 
ceive kindness  just  as  the  grass  receives  dew  or  the 
flowers  sunshine  —  knowing  whence  alone  it  comes, 
though  it  may  be  administered  by  human  hands. 

Homeless  though  such  women  often  are,  and  are 
doomed  to  be,  there  is  never  a  home  where  they  are 
not  welcome,  and  where  their  bright  and  useful  pres- 
ence does  not  bring  comfort  and  cheerfulness.  They 
do  everything  for  everybody  as  long  as  they  possibly 
can ;  and,  when  their  power  of  doing  ceases,  they  sub- 
mit to  be  "done  for" — in  the  best  sense — without  any 
unnatural  or  painful  resistance.  In  their  day  they  have 
taken  care  of  so  many,  that  it  is  but  fair  others  should 
take  care  of  them.  And  they  never  lack  some  one 
who  not  only  does  it,  but  has  pleasure  in  doing  it. 
Even  when  come  the  years  of  slow  decline,  or  the  last 
painful  struggle  before  the  final  release,  nobody  is 
"glad  to  get  rid  of  them."  Though  all  natural  ties 
may  have  died  out,  the  adopted  ties  of  affectionate 


118  DECAYED   GENTLEWOMEN. 

gratitude  are  quite  as  strong,  and  remain  so  to  the  end. 
I  have  known  a  whole  family  mourn  for  and  miss,  al- 
most as  if  she  had  been  a  mother,  some  poor  little  old 
maid,  not  connected  with  them  by  blood  or  anything 
else,  except  that  self-devotion  which  is  the  strongest 
bond  of  all.  As  I  have  said,  "  Once  a  lady,  always  a 
lady ;"  so,  once  lovable  is  to  be  always  lovable,  and  be- 
loved. Any  woman  who  is  that  need  not  fear  changed 
fortunes,  sickness,  or  old-age.  Help  will  come  when  she 
needs  it;  especially  if,  as  long  as  she  can,  she  nerves 
herself  to  do  without  it,  and  uses  all  her  powers  to  make 
herself  pleasant  and  useful  wherever  she  goes.  Then 
her  candle,  being  never  put  under  a  bushel,  will  burn 
out  brightly  to  its  latest  flicker.  Of  her  it  may  be  truly 
said  that  she  is  the  salt  of  the  earth ;  and,  be  she  ma- 
tron, widow,  or  old  maid,  the  wholesomeness  of  her 
nature  will  keep  her  fresh  and  young  to  the  last.  Poor 
she  may  be,  "reduced,"  "unfortunate,"  but  nothing 
will  ever  sink  her  into  the  condition  o*f  a  "decayed" 
gentlewoman. 


ON  NOVELS  AND  NOVEL-MAKERS 


ON  NOVELS  AND  NOVEL-MAKERS. 


"  SET  a  thief  to  catch  a  thief."  Well,  even  so !  And 
"  honor  among  thieves  " — you  may  always  find  the  prov- 
erb and  counter-proverb — is  an  equally  noble  sentiment. 
I  am  not  going  to  lay  bare  the  secrets  of  the  prison- 
house. 

Still,  may  not  the  ancient  gladiator  be  allowed  to 
haunt  his  former  arena,  to  examine  and  criticise  the  com- 
batants, to  watch  with  interest  the  various  "throws?" 
And  the  old  vocalist,  who  has  quietly  dropped,  let  us 
hope  in  good  time,  into  the  teacher  of  singing — is  it  un- 
natural that  he  should  sometimes  like  to  frequent  the 
stalls,  and  make  his  own  comments  on  his  brethren  still 
before  the  footlights?  For  he  loves  his  art  as  much 
as  ever ;  he  understands  its  secrets  perhaps  better  than 
ever,  only —  But  peace  !  Is  he  not  an  aged  gladiator 
— a  tired  singer  ?  Happy  for  him  if  he  is  wise  enough 
to  recognize  this  fact  and  act  upon  it. 

Yes,  there  comes  a  time  when  we  authors  must  accept 
the  truth  that  it  is  better  for  us,  as  well  as  our  books,  to 
be  "  shelved."  We  ought  never  to  write  at  all  unless 
6 


122  ON   NOVELS   AND   NOVEL-MAKEK8. 

we  have  something  to  say ;  and  there  are  few  things  sad- 
der than  to  see  a  writer  to  whom  the  world  has  listened, 
and  listened  with  pleasure,  go  on  feebly  repeating  him- 
self, sinking  from  originality  into  mediocrity,  and  then 
into  the  merest  commonplace.  "  Stop  in  time  "  is  the 
wisest  advice  that  can  be  given  to  all  who  live  by  their 
brains.  These  brains,  even  if  the  strongest,  will  only 
last  a  certain  time,  and  do  a  certain  quantity  of  work — 
really  good  work.  Alas,  for  those  authors  who  have 
to  live  upon  their  reputation  after  their  powers  are 
gone ! 

But  though  the  impulse  of  genius  melts  away,  and 
even  talent  can  be  worn  out  in  time,  there  is  one  thing 
which,  among  much  lost,  is  assuredly  gained,  and  that 
is  experience.  The  quickness  to  detect  faults  won 
through  fighting  with  our  own,  and  the  knowledge 
how  to  rectify  these  errors  when  found,  are  advan- 
tages we  possess  still,  and  should  not  lightly  underrate. 
Therefore,  if,  after  having  written  novels  for  more  than 
a  quarter  of  a  century,  I  have  lately  tried  reading  them, 
may  I  be  allowed  a  few  words,  which  I  trust  none  of  my 
co-mates  will  misconstrue,  nor  their  readers  and  mine 
misapprehend  ? 

Novel-making — I  use  the  word  designedly,  for  it  is  a 
mistake  to  suppose  that  a  novel  makes  itself — is  not 
an  impulse,  but  an  art.  The  poet  may  be  "  born,  not 
made ;"  but  the  novelist  must  make  himself  one,  just 


ON   NOVELS   AND   NOVEL-MAKERS.  123 

as  much  as  any  carpenter  or  bricklayer.  Yon  cannot 
build  a  house  at  random,  or  without  having  learned  the 
bricklayer's  trade ;  and  by  no  possibility  can  you  con- 
struct a  three-volume  story,  which  shall  be  a  real,  endur- 
ing work  of  art,  without  having  attained  that  mechani- 
cal skill  which  is  as  necessary  to  genius  as  the  furnace 
to  the  ore  and  the  lapidary's  tool  to  the  diamond.  And 
since  most  long-experienced  workmen  are  supposed  to 
know  something  of  their  tools  and  the  way  to  use  them, 
as  well  as  to  be  tolerable  judges  of  the  raw  material  in 
which  they  have  worked  all  their  days,  I  do  not  apolo- 
gize for  writing  this  paper.  It  may  be  useful  to  some 
of  those  enthusiastic  young  people  who  think,  as  a  fash- 
ionable lady  once  said  to  me,  "  Oh,  how  charming  it 
must  be  to  write  a  novel !  Couldn't  you  teach  me  ?" 

No.  I  was  afraid  not.  And  though  work  is  genius, 
as  some  one  has  said,  and  not  quite  without  truth,  I 
could  not  advise  my  young  friend  to  try. 

Novel — the  word,  coming  from  the  Italian  novella, 
implies  something  new :  a  rifacciamento,  or  remaking, 
in  an  imaginative  shape,  of  the  eternally  old  elements 
of  mortal  life,  joy  and  sorrow,  fortune  and  misfortune, 
love  and  death ;  also  virtue  and  vice,  though  whether 
the  novel  should  illustrate  any  special  moral  is  a  much- 
debated  question. 

Apparently,  beyond  some  vague  notions  of  virtue  re- 
warded and  vice  punished,  the  old  romancists  did  not 


124:  ON   NOVELS   AND   NOVEL-MAKEES. 

consider  a  moral  necessary.  There  is  certainly  no  pur- 
pose in  the  "  Arabian  Nights'  Entertainments,"  or  the 
"Decameron"  of  Boccaccio,  nor  very  much  in  "Sir 
Charles  Grandison."  Probably  less  than  none  in  "  Tom 
Jones,"  and  others  of  the  same  age  and  class.  Even  the 
author  of  "Waverley,"  the  Shakespeare  of  novelists, 
only  teaches  us,  as  Shakespeare  does,  by  implication.  It 
has  been  left  to  modern  writers  to  convert  the  novel  into 
a  sort  of  working  steam-engine,  usable  for  all  purposes ; 
and  to  express  through  it  their  pet  theories  of  religion 
or  morality,  their  opinions  on  social  wrongs  and  reme- 
dies, and  their  views  on  aesthetic  and  philosophical  sub- 
jects. From  the  art  of  cookery  up — or  down — to  the 
law  of  divorce,  anybody  who  thinks  he  has  anything  to 
say,  says  it  in  three  volumes,  mashed  up,  like  hard  po- 
tatoes, in  the  milk  and  butter  of  fiction. 

A  portion,  however,  of  our  modern  novel-writers  re- 
pudiate the  idea  of  having  any  moral  purpose  whatever ; 
and,  truly,  few  of  their  readers  can  accuse  them  of  it. 
Amusement  pure  and  simple — not  always  either  sim- 
ple or  pure,  but  always  amusement — is  their  sole  aim. 
They — that  is,  the  cleverest  of  them — are  satisfied  to 
cut  a  bit  at  random  out  of  the  wonderful  web  of  life, 
and  present  it  to  you  just  as  it  is,  wishing  you  to  accept 
it  as  such,  without  investigating  it  too  closely  or  paus- 
ing to  consider  whether  the  pattern  is  complete,  what 
the  mode  and  method  of  the  weaving,  and  whether  you 


ON    NOVELS   AND   NOVEL-MAKERS.  125 

only  see  a  part  or  the  whole.  That  there  is  a  whole — 
that  life  is  not  chance-work,  but  a  great  design,  with 
the  hands  of  the  Divine  Artificer  working  behind  it  all 
— so  seldom  comes  into  their  calculations  that  they  do 
not  expect  it  to  come  into  yours.  Therefore,  with  a 
daring  and  sometimes  almost  blasphemous  ingenuity, 
they  put  themselves  to  play  Providence,  to  set  up  their 
puppets  and  knock  them  down,  and  make  them  between 
whiles  "  play  such  fantastic  tricks  before  high  heaven  " 
that  one  feels  heaven's  commonest  law  of  right  and 
wrong  would  to  them  be,  to  say  the  least,  extremely  in- 
convenient. 

But  to  return.  Certainly — whatever  my  fashionable 
young  friend  might  think — no  one  can  be  taught  to 
write  novels.  Yet  to  suppose  that  novel-writing  comes 
by  accident  or  impulse — that  the  author  has  only  to  sit 
with  his  pen  in  his  hand  and  his  eyes  on  the  ceiling, 
waiting  for  the  happy  moment  of  inspiration — is  an 
equal  mistake. 

It  may  be  a  theory  startling  to  sentimental  folk  and 
offensive  to  lazy  folk,  but  I  believe  a  true  author,  of  the 
highest  and  most  useful  kind,  never  has  any  "  moods." 
He  does  not  wait  for  the  impulse  of  genius  to  come 
upon  him — sitting  miserably  on  his  poor  little  joint- 
stool  or  his  elegant  arm-chair — like  the  Pythian  oracle 
over  her  crack  in  the  sacred  cavern,  waiting  for  the 
afflatus  of  the  god.  He  settles  to  his  daily  work  as  reg- 


126  ON   NOVELS   AND   NOVEL-MAKEKS. 

ularly  and  conscientiously  as  the  blacksmith  and  the 
bricklayer  do  to  theirs.  So  much  of  it  is  always  manip- 
ulation— spiritual  and  intellectual  manipulation  certain- 
ly, yet  mere  handiwork,  to  be  learned  by  experience 
only — that  if  he  thinks  he  can  trust  solely  to  inspira- 
tion, genius,  or  whatever  you  choose  to  call  it,  he  will 
find  he  might  as  well  attempt  to  light  his  house  with  a 
will-o'-the-wisp,  instead  of  calling  in  the  aid  of  the  can- 
dle-maker and  the  gas-man. 

Still,  neither  of  these  can  do  any  good  without  light 
— the  kindling  of  the  heaven-sent  flame.  And  the  nov- 
elist's work  is  not  exactly  like  that  of  the  bricklayer 
and  blacksmith — though  I  have  heard  of  a  popular 
writer  who  turns  out  so  many  pages  per  diem  as  the 
village  Yulcan  does  horseshoes.  True  literature  is  the 
combination  of  two  things — the  impulse  to  write  and 
the  knowledge  how  to  do  it. 

To  make  a  novel — that  is,  to  construct  out  of  the 
ever-changing  kaleidoscope  of  human  fate  a  picture  of 
life  which  shall  impress  people  as  being  life-like,  and 
stand  out  to  its  own  and  possibly  an  after  generation  as 
such — this  is  a  task  that  cannot  be  accomplished  with- 
out genius,  but  which  genius,  unaided  by  mechanical 
skill,  will  surely  fail  to  accomplish  thoroughly.  Much 
of  what  is  required  comes  not  by  intuition,  but  experi- 
ence. "  How  do  you  write  a  novel  2"  has  been  asked 
me  hundreds  of  times;  and,  as  half  the  world  now 


ON   NOVELS   AND   NOVEL-MAKERS.  127 

writes  novels,  expecting  the  other  half  to  read  them, 
my  answer,  given  in  plain  print,  may  not  be  quite  use- 
less. The  shoemaker  who  in  his  time  has  fitted  a  good 
many  feet  need  not  hesitate  to  explain  his  mode  of 
measuring,  how  he  cuts  and  sews  his  leather,  and  so 
on.  He  can  give  a  hint  or  two  on  the  workmanship ; 
the  materials  are  beyond  his  power. 

What  other  novelists  do  I  know  not,  but  this  has 
been  my  own  way — db  ovo.  For,  I  contend,  all  stories 
that  are  meant  to  live  must  contain  the  germ  of  life, 
the  egg,  the  vital  principle.  A  novel  "  with  a  purpose" 
may  be  intolerable,  but  a  novel  without  a  purpose  is 
more  intolerable  still — as  feeble  and  flaccid  as  a  man 
without  a  backbone.  Therefore,  the  first  thing  is  to  fix 
on  a  central  idea,  like  the  spine  of  a  human  being  or  the 
trunk  of  a  tree.  Yet,  as  Nature  never  leaves  either 
bare,  but  clothes  them  with  muscle  and  flesh,  branches 
and  foliage,  so  this  leading  idea  of  his  book  will  be,  by 
the  true  author,  so  successfully  disguised  as  not  to  ob- 
trude itself  objectionably ;  indeed,  the  ordinary  reader 
ought  not  even  to  suspect  its  existence.  Yet  from  it, 
this  one  principal  idea,  proceed  all  after-growths :  the 
kind  of  plot  which  shall  best  develop  it,  the  characters 
which  must  act  it  out,  the  incidents  which  will  express 
these  characters,  even  to  the  conversations  which  evolve 
and  describe  these  incidents.  All  are  sequences,  fol- 
lowing one  another  in  natural  order ;  even  as  from  the 


128  ON   NOVELS   AND   NOVEL-MAKERS. 

seed-germ  result  successively  the  trunk,  limbs,  branches, 
twigs,  and  leafage  of  a  tree. 

This,  if  I  have  put  my  meaning  clearly,  shows  that 
a  conscientiously  written  novel  is  by  no  means  a  piece 
of  impulsive,  accidental  scribbling,  but  a  deliberate  work 
of  art ;  that  though,  in  one  sense,  it  is  also  a  work  of 
nature,  since  every  part  ought  to  result  from  and  be 
kept  subservient  to  the  whole,  still,  in  another,  the  novel 
is  the  last  thing  that  ought  to  be  allowed  to  say  of  itself, 
like  Topsy,  "  'spects  I  growed."  Except  in  one  sense. 
If  an  author's  personages  are  strongly  and  clearly  de- 
fined to  his  own  mind,  he  knows  that,  in  whatever  sit- 
uations he  places  them,  they  must  think,  act,  and  speak 
in  a  certain  way.  Events  develop  character ;  but  char- 
acter also  moulds  action  and  event.  Viewed  in  this 
light,  a  really  human  novel  "  writes  itself." 

Style  or  composition,  though  to  some  it  comes  nat- 
urally, does  not  come  to  all.  When  I  was  young,  an 
older  and  more  experienced  writer  once  said  to  me, 
"Never  use  two  adjectives  where  one  will  do;  never 
use  an  adjective  at  all  where  a  noun  will  do.  Avoid 
italics,  notes  of  exclamation,  foreign  words,  and  quo- 
tations. Put  full  stops  instead  of  colons ;  make  your 
sentences  as  short  and  clear  as  you  possibly  can  ;  and 
whenever  you  think  you  have  written  a  particularly 
fine  sentence,  cut  it  out." 

More  valuable  advice  could  not  be  given  to  any  young 


ON  NOVELS  AND  NOVEL-MAKERS.         129 

author.  It  strikes  at  the  root  of  that  slip-shod  literature 
of  which  we  find  so  much  nowadays,  even  in  writers  of 
genius.  To  these  latter,  indeed,  it  is  a  greater  tempta- 
tion ;  their  rapid,  easy  pen  runs  on  as  the  fancy  strikes, 
and  they  do  not  pause  to  consider  that  in  a  novel,  as  in 
a  picture,  breadth  is  indispensable.  Every  part  should 
be  made  subservient  to  the  whole.  You  must  have 
a  foreground  and  background,  and  a  middle  distance. 
If  you  persist  in  working  up  one  character,  or  finish- 
ing up  minutely  one  incident,  your  perspective  will  be 
destroyed,  and  your  book  become  a  mere  collection  of 
fragments ;  not  a  work  of  art  at  all.  The  true  artist 
will  always  be  ready  to  sacrifice  any  pet  detail  to  the 
perfection  of  the  whole. 

Sometimes,  I  allow,  this  is  hard.  One  gets  interest- 
ed— novel-writers  only  know  how  interested — in  some 
particular  character  or  portion  of  the  plot,  and  is  tempt- 
ed to  work  out  these  to  the  injury  of  the  rest.  Then 
there  usually  comes  a  flat  time,  say  about  the  second 
volume,  when  the  first  impetus  has  subsided,  and  the 
excitement  of  the  denouement  has  not  yet  come,  yet  the 
story  must  be  spun  on  somehow,  if  only  to  get  to  some- 
thing more  exciting.  This  may  account  for  the  fact 
that  so  many  second  volumes  are  rather  dull.  But  a 
worse  failure  is  when  the  third  volume  dwindles  down, 
the  interest  slowly  diminishing  to  nothing.  Or  else  the 
story  is  all  huddled  up,  everybody  married  or  killed 
6* 


130  ON   NOVELS   AND   NOVEL-MAKEKS. 

somehow — not  as  we  novelists  try  to  do  it,  "comfort- 
ably," but  in  a  hasty,  unsatisfactory  manner,  which 
makes  readers  wonder  why  the  end  is  so  unworthy  of 
the  beginning. 

Either  mistake  is  fatal,  and  both  commonly  proceed 
from  carelessness,  or  from  the  lack  of  that  quality  with- 
out which  no  good  work  is  possible — the  infinite  capacity 
of  taking  trouble.  "Look  at  my  manuscript,"  said  a 
voluminous  writer  once  to  me ;  "  there  is  hardly  a  single 
correction  in  it ;  and  this  is  my  first  draught.  I  never 
copy,  and  I  rarely  alter  a  line."  It  would  have  been 
uncivil  to  say  so,  but  I  could  not  help  thinking  that 
both  author  and  public  would  have  been  none  the  worse 
if  my  friend  had  altered  a  good  many  lines  and  recop- 
ied  not  a  few  pages. 

While  on  the  question  of  manuscripts,  let  me  say  one 
practical  word.  Authors  are  apt  to  think  that  any  sort 
of  " copy"  is  good  enough  for  the  press.  Quite  the  con- 
trary. An  untidy,  useless,  illegible  manuscript  is  an 
offence  to  the  publisher,  a  dangerous  irritation  to  his 
"  reader,"  and  to  the  printer  an  absolute  cruelty.  Also, 
many  proof  corrections,  often  made  so  wantonly,  and 
costing  so  much  trouble  and  money,  are  severely  to  be 
condemned.  Doubtless  the  genus  irritdbile  has  its 
wrongs,  from  hard-headed  and  often  hard-hearted  men 
of  business;  but  volumes  might  be  written  about  the 
worry,  the  loss,  the  actual  torment,  that  inaccurate,  ir- 


ON   NOVELS    AND   NOVEL-MAKEKS.  131 

regular,  impecunious,  and  extravagant  authors  are  to 
that  much-enduring  and  necessarily  silent  class,  their 
publishers. 

An  accusation  is  often  made  against  us  novelists  that 
we  paint  our  characters,  especially  our  ridiculous  or  un- 
pleasant characters,  from  life.  Doubtless  many  second- 
rate  writers  do  this,  thereby  catching  the  ill-natured 
class  of  readers,  which  always  enjoys  seeing  its  neigh- 
bor "shown  up."  But  a  really  good  novelist  would 
scorn  to  attain  popularity  by  such  mean  devices.  Be- 
sides, any  artist  knows  that  to  paint  exactly  from  life  is 
so  difficult  as  to  be  almost  impossible.  Study  from  life 
he  must — copying  suitable  heads,  arms,  or  legs,  and  ap- 
propriating bits  of  character,  personal  or  mental  idio- 
syncracies,  making  use  of  the  real  to  perfect  the  ideal. 
But  the  ideal  should  be  behind  it  all.  The  nature  to 
which  he  holds  up  the  mirror  should  be  abstract,  not 
individual ;  he  is  a  creator,  not  an  imitator,  and  must 
be  a  poor  creator  who  can  only  make  his  book  read  by 
gibbeting  therein  real  people,  like  kites  and  owls  on  a 
barn-door,  for  the  amusement  and  warning  of  society. 

We  writers  cannot  but  smile  when  asked  if  such-and- 
such  a  character  is  "  drawn  from  life,"  and  especially 
when  ingenious  critics  fancy  they  have  identified  cer- 
tain persons,  places,  or  incidents — almost  always  falsely. 
Of  course,  we  go  about  the  world  with  our  eyes  open ; 
but  what  we  see,  and  how  we  make  use  of  it,  is  known 


132  ON   NOVELS   AND   NOVEL-MAKERS. 

only  to  ourselves.  Our  sitters  are  never  aware  they  are 
being  painted,  and  rarely,  if  ever,  recognize  their  own 
likenesses.  Whether  or  not  it  may  be  right  to  hold  up 
to  public  obloquy  a  bad  or  contemptible  character,  we 
mi^ht  surely  be  allowed  to  paint  a  perfect  one — if  we 
could  find  it,  which  is  not  too  probable.  For  me,  I  can 
only  say  that,  during  all  the  years  I  have  studied  hu- 
manity, I  never  met  one  human  being  whom  I  could 
have  "  put  into  a  book,"  as  a  whole,  without  injuring 
my  work.  The  only  time  I  ever  attempted  (by  re- 
quest) to  make  a  study  from  nature,  absolutely  literal, 
all  the  reviewers  cried  out,  to  iny  extreme  amusement, 
"  This  character  is  altogether  unnatural." 

Hitherto  I  have  considered  the  novel  simply  as  a  lit- 
erary achievement  —  a  book  "  clever,"  "  interesting ;" 
above  all,  a  book  "  that  will  sell."  But  there  is  a  high- 
er and  deeper  view  of  it,  which  no  writer  can  escape, 
and  no  conscientious  writer  would  ever  wish  to  escape. 
If  we,  poor  finite  mortals,  begin  telling  stories,  we  take 
into  our  feeble  hands  the  complicated  machinery  of  life, 
of  which  none  can  understand  the  whole,  and  very  few 
even  the  smallest  bit ;  we  work  it  out  after  our  own 
fancy,  moral  or  no  moral ;  we  invent  our  puppets,  and 
put  them  through  their  marionette-like  antics,  iu  imi- 
tation of  the  great  drama  which  a  mysterious  Hand  is 
forever  playing  with  us  human  beings ;  and  sometimes 
we  think  we  could  do  it  quite  as  well,  if  we  had  the 


ON   NOVELS   AND   NOVEL-MAKERS.  133 

chance !  But  do  we  ever  consider  that,  in  making  up 
from  imagination  a  picture  of  reality,  we  are,  in  rather 
a  dangerous  way,  mimicking  Providence  ?  much  as  chil- 
dren do  with  their  dolls  when  they  make  them  go  to 
school  or  be  put  to  bed,  or  have  the  measles ;  imitating 
ordinary  child-life,  so  far  as  they  understand  it,  in  their 
innocent  way.  But  our  ways  are  not  always  innocent, 
and  our  wisdom  is  sometimes  less  than  a  child's.  A 
bad  novel, which  does  not  "justify  the  ways  of  God  to 
men" — as  Milton  vainly  tried  to  do  in  "  Paradise  Lost" — 
but  leaves  behind  it  the  impression  that  the  world  is  all 
out  of  joint,  that  there  is  no  difference  between  right 
and  wrong,  and  nothing  in  life  worth  living  for — such 
a  novel  does  more  harm  than  a  dozen  atheistical  books, 
or  a  hundred  dull,  narrow-minded  sermons.  Poison, 
taken  as  such,  may  find  an  antidote;  there  is  no  de- 
fence against  it  when  administered  in  the  form  of  food. 
That  the  novel,  not  only  in  its  literary  but  moral  form, 
is  an  engine  of  enormous  power,  no  one  could  doubt 
who  had  the  reading  of  the  letters  received,  say  in  a 
single  year,  or  even  a  single  month,  by  any  tolerably 
well-known  author,  from  all  parts  of  the  world,  and 
from  total  strangers  of  every  age,  class,  and  degree. 
Not  merely  the  everlasting  autograph -beggars,  or  the 
eulogists,  generally  conceited  egotists,  who  enjoy  the 
vanity  of  corresponding  with  celebrated  folk,  but  the 
honest,  well-meaning,  and  often  most  touching  letter- 


134:  ON   NOVELS   AND   NOVEL-MAKERS. 

writers,  who  pour  out  their  simple  hearts  to  the  un- 
known friend  who  has  exercised  so  strong  an  influence 
over  their  lives.  To  this  friend  they  appeal  not  only 
for  sympathy,  but  advice — often  of  the  most  extraor- 
dinary kind — on  love  affairs,  the  education  of  children, 
business  or  domestic  difficulties,  impulses  of  gratitude, 
revelations  of  perplexing  secrets,  outcries  of  intolerable 
pain,  coming  sometimes  from  the  very  ends  of  the  earth, 
in  a  mixture  of  tragedy  and  comedy,  to  the  silent  recip- 
ient of  these  strange  phases  of  human  life — stranger 
than  anything  he  or  she  has  ever  dared  to  put  into  any 
novel.  Yet  so  it  is ;  and  any  conscientious  author  can 
but  stand  mute  and  trembling  in  face  of  the  awful 
responsibility  which  follows  every  written  line. 

This,  even  of  the  ordinarily  good  books ;  but  what  of 
the  bad  ones? 

I  believe  a  thoroughly  "  bad  "  book,  as  we  of  the  last 
generation  used  to  style  such — bad  either  for  coarse- 
ness of  style,  as  "  Tristram  Shandy,"  or  laxity  of  morals, 
like  "  Don  Juan  " — does  infinitely  less  harm  than  many 
modern  novels  which  we  lay  on  our  drawing-room  ta- 
bles, and  let  our  young  daughters  read  ad  infinitum, 
or  ad  nauseam :  novels,  chiefly,  I  grieve  to  say,  writ- 
ten by  women,  who,  either  out  of  sheer  ignorance  or  a 
boastful,  morbid  pleasure  in  meddling  with  forbidden 
topics,  often  write  things  that  men  would  be  ashamed 
to  write. 


ON   NOVELS  AND   NOVEL-MAKEBS.  135 

Absolute  wickedness — crime  represented  as  crime,  and 
licentiousness  put  forward  as  licentiousness — is  far  less 
dangerous  to  the  young  and  naturally  pure  mind  than 
that  charming  sentimental  dallying  with  sin  which 
makes  it  appear  so  piteous,  so  interesting,  so  beautiful. 
Nay,  without  even  entering  upon  the  merits  of  the 
favorite  modern  style  of  fiction — in  which  love,  to  be 
attractive,  must  necessarily  be  unlawful — there  is  a  style 
of  novel  in  which  right  and  wrong  are  muddled  up  to- 
gether, as  if  the  author,  and  consequently  the  reader, 
would  take  no  trouble  to  distinguish  between  them. 
Instead  of  white  being  white,  and  black  black,  both 
take  a  sort  of  neutral  tint — the  white  not  so  very  pure 
after  all,  and  the  black  toned  down  into  an  aesthetic 
gray. 

In  such  novels  the  characters  are  made  interesting, 
not  by  their  virtues,  but  their  faults ;  a  good  woman 
worships  a  bad  man,  and  vice  versa.  Now,  this  may 
sometimes  be  in.  real  life;  but  to  present  it  in  fiction, 
to  make  a  really  noble  woman  the  abject,  willing  slave 
of  a  contemptible  brute  not  worthy  to  tie  her  shoes,  or 
an  honorable  man  doing  all  sorts  of  erring  things  for 
the  sake  of  a  feeble  or  vile  woman,  whom  her  own  sex, 
and  the  best  of  the  other,  would  heartily  despise — the 
effect  of  such  a  picture  as  this  is  to  confuse  all  one's 
notions  of  good  and  bad,  and  produce  a  blurred  and 
blotted  vision  of  life,  which,  to  those  just  beginning 


136  ON    NOVELS  AND   NOVEL-MAKERS. 

life,  is  either  infinitely  sad  or  infinitely  harmful.  Be- 
sides, it  is  not  true.  Time  brings  its  revenges ;  and  if 
there  is  one  certainty  in  life,  it  is  the  certainty  of  retri- 
bution. Ay,  even  in  this  world  :  and,  alas !  down  to 
the  third  and  fourth  generation.  A  creed  by  the 
young  doubted  or  despised,  but  which  the  old,  whether 
optimists  or  pessimists,  know  and  have  proved  as  a 
fact. 

There  is  another  favorite  subject  of  modern  fiction  : 
a  man  or  woman  married  hastily  or  unhappily,  and 
meeting  afterwards  some  "  elective  affinity,"  the  right 
man  or  right  woman.  No  doubt,  this  is  a  terrible  lot, 
which  may  happen  to  the  most  guiltless  persons,  and 
does  happen,  perhaps,  oftener  than  is  generally  suspect- 
ed. Novelists  seize  upon  it  as  a  dramatic  position,  and 
paint  it  in  such  glowing,  tender,  and  pathetic  colors 
that,  absorbed  in  the  pity  of  the  thing,  we  quite  forget 
its  sin.  The  hapless  lovers  rouse  our  deepest  sympathy  ; 
we  follow  them  to  the  very  verge  of  crime,  almost  re- 
gretting that  it  is  called  crime ;  and  when  the  obnoxious 
husband  or  wife  dies,  and  the  lovers  are  dismissed  to 
happiness — as  is  usually  done — we  feel  quite  relieved 
and  comfortable! 

Now,  surely  this  is  immoral,  as  immoral  as  the  coars- 
est sentence  Shakespeare  ever  penned,  or  the  most  pas- 
sionate picture  that  Shelley  or  Byron  ever  drew.  Nay, 
more  so,  for  these  are  only  nature — vicious,  undisguised, 


ON   NOVELS  AND   NOVEL-MAKEES.  137 

but  natural  still,  and  making  no  pretence  of  virtue;  but 
your  sentimentalist  assumes  a  virtue,  and  expects  sym- 
pathy for  his  immorality,  which  is  none  the  less  immoral 
because,  God  knows,  it  is  a  delineation  often  only  too 
true,  and  perhaps  only  too  deserving  of  pity — His  pity 
who  can  see  into  the  soul  of  man.  Many  a  condemned 
thief  and  hanged  murderer  may  have  done  the  deed 
under  most  extenuating  circumstances ;  but  theft  still 
remains  theft,  and  murder  murder.  And — let  us  not 
mince  words — though  modern  taste  may  enwrap  it  in 
ever  such  pathetic,  heroic,  and  picturesque  form,  adul- 
tery is  still  adultery.  Never  do  our  really  great  moral 
writers  deny  this,  or  leave  us  in  the  slightest  doubt  be- 
tween virtue  and  vice.  It  is  the  mild  sentimentalists 
who,  however  they  may  resent  being  classed  with  the 
"  fast "  authors — alas !  too  often  authoresses — of  mod- 
ern fiction,  are  equally  immoral ;  because  they  hold  the 
balance  of  virtue  and  vice  with  so  feeble  and  uncertain 
a  hand  as  to  leave  both  utterly  confused  in  the  reader's 
mind. 

But,  putting  aside  the  question  of  morality,  there  is 
another  well  deserving  the  consideration  of  novelists — 
viz.,  whether  the  subjects  they  choose  are  within  the 
fair  limits  of  art.  Legitimate  comedy  ought  to  be  based 
on  humor  and  wit,  free  from  coarseness  and  vulgarity ; 
and  in  true  tragedy  the  terrible  becomes  the  heroic  by 
the  elimination  of  every  element  which  is  merely  hor- 


138  ON   NOVELS   AND  NOVEL-MAKEKS. 

rible  or  disgusting.  In  the  dying  martyr  we  ought  to 
see,  not  the  streaming  blood  or  the  shrivelling  of  the 
burned  flesh,  but  the  gaze  of  ecstatic  faith  into  an  opened 
heaven ;  and  the  noblest  battle  ever  represented  is  mis- 
represented when  the  artist  chooses  scenes  fit  only  for  a 
hospital  operating-table  or  a  butcher's  shambles. 

I  cannot  but  think  that  certain  modern  novels,  despite 
their  extreme  cleverness,  deal  with  topics  beyond  the 
legitimate  province  of  fiction.  Yivid  descriptions  of 
hangings,  of  prison  whippings,  of  tortures  inflicted  on 
sane  persons  in  lunatic-asylums,  are  not  fit  subjects  for 
art ;  at  least,  the  art  which  can  choose  them  and  dilate 
upon  them  is  scarcely  of  a  healthy  kind,  or  likely  to  con- 
duce to  the  moral  health  of  the  reader. 

The  answer  to  this  objection  is,  that  such  things  are ; 
therefore  why  not  write  about  them  ?  So  must  medical 
and  surgical  books  be  written ;  so  must  the  most  loath- 
some details  of  crime  and  misery  be  investigated  by 
statesmen  and  political  economists.  But  all  these  are 
professional  studies,  which,  however  painful,  require  to 
be  gone  through.  No  one  would  ever  enter  into  them 
as  a  matter  of  mere  amusement.  Besides,  as  is  almost 
inevitable  in  a  novel  "  with  a  purpose,"  or  one  in  which 
the  chief  interest  centres  in  some  ghastly  phase  of  hu- 
manity, there  is  generally  a  certain  amount  of,  perhaps 
involuntary,  exaggeration,  against  which  the  calm:  judi- 
cial mind  instinctively  rebels.  "  Two  sides  to  every 


ON   NOVELS  AND   NOVEL-MAKEKS.  139 

subject,"  say  we ;  "  and  I  should  rather  like  to  hear  the 
other  side." 

Without  holding  the  unwise  creed  that  ignorance  is 
innocence,  and  that  immunity  from  painful  sensations 
induces  strength  of  character,  I  still  maintain  that  there 
are  topics  which  are  best  kept  in  shadow,  especially 
from  the  young.  We  sometimes  admit  to  our  public 
galleries — though  I  question  if  we  should — the  magnif- 
icently painted  but  gross  pictures  of  a  few  old  masters, 
and  the  realistic  horrors  upon  which  a  certain  French 
school  has  made  its  fame.  But  few  of  us  would  choose 
a  Potiphar's  Wife,  or  a  newly  guillotined  Charlotte  Cor- 
day,  for  the  adornment  of  the  domestic  hearth.  Such 
subjects,  however  well  manipulated,  are  apt,  either  in 
art  or  literature,  to  do  more  harm  than  the  moral  drawu 
from  them  is  likely  to  do  good. 

Of  course,  the  case  may  be  argued  pretty  strongly 
from  the  other  side.  Life  is  not  all  "  roses  and  lilies 
and  daffadowndillies ;"  therefore,  why  should  fiction 
represent  it  as  such  ?  Men  and  women  are  not  angels, 
and  bad  people  are  often  much  more  interesting  than 
good  people  in  real  life:  why  should  we  not  make 
them  so  in  novels  ? 

I  answer,  simply  because  it  is  we  who  make  them — 
we  short-sighted  mortals,  who  take  upon  us  to  paint  life, 
and  can  only  do  so  as  far  as  our  feeble  vision  allows  us 
to  see  it ;  which  in  some  of  us  is  scarcely  an  inch  be- 


140  ON   NOVELS  AND   NOVEL-MAKEK8. 

yond  our  own  nose.  Only  a  few — but  these  are  always 
the  truly  great — can  see  with  larger  eyes,  and  reproduce 
what  they  see  with  a  calm,  steady,  and  almost  always 
kindly  hand,  which  seems  like  the  hand  of  Providence, 
because  its  work  is  done  with  a  belief  in  Providence ; 
in  those  "mysterious  ways"  by  which,  soon  or  late, 
everything — and  everybody — finds  its  own  level ;  vir- 
tue its  reward,  and  vice  its  retribution.  Also  (happy 
those  who  are  given  to  see  this !)  those  merciful  ways 
which  out  of  temporary  evil  evolve  oftentimes  perma- 
nent good.  To  judge  authors  solely  by  their  works  is 
not  always  fair,  because  most  people  put  their  best 
selves  into  their  books,  which  are  the  cream  of  their 
life,  and  the  residuum  may  be  but  skimmed  milk  for 
daily  use.  But  in  the  department  of  fiction,  at  least, 
the  individual  character  gives  its  stamp  to  every  page. 
Not  all  good  novelists  may  be  ideal  men  and  women, 
but  I'  doubt  much  if  any  really  immoral  man  or  irre- 
ligious woman  ever  made  a  good  novelist. 

I  wish  not  to  malign  my  brethren.  Most  of  them  do 
their  best ;  and  I  think  we  may  fairly  decline  to  believe 
such  stories  as  that  of  the  "  popular  authoress  "  who, 
having  starved  as  a  moral,  prosy,  and  altogether  unpop- 
ular authoress  for  several  seasons,  was  advised  to  try 
"  spicy  "  writing,  and  now  makes  her  thousands  a  year. 
And  even  after  weeding  from  our  ranks  the  "  fast,"  the 
sentimental,  the  ghastly,  the  feeble  and  prosy,  the  clap- 


ON   NOVELS    AND   NOVEL-MAKERS.  141 

trap  and  altogether  silly  school,  there  still  remain  a 
good  number  of  moderately  clever  and  moderately 
wholesome  writers  of  fiction,  who  redeem  our  literature 
from  disgrace,  or  could  do  so  if  they  chose,  if  they 
could  be  made  to  feel  themselves  responsible,  not  to 
man  only,  but  to  God.  For  "  every  idle  word  that  men 
shall  speak  "  (how  much  more  write  ?)  "  they  shall  give 
account  thereof  in  the  day  of  judgment." 

To  us,  who  are  old  enough  to  have  read  pretty  thor- 
oughly the  book  of  human  life,  it  matters  little  what  we 
read  in  mere  novels,  which  are  at  best  a  poor,  imaginary 
imitation  of  what  we  have  studied  as  a  solemn  reality ; 
but  to  the  young  it  matters  a  great  deal.  Impressions 
are  made,  lessons  taught,  and  influences  given,  which, 
whether  for  good  or  for  evil,  nothing  can  afterwards 
efface.  The  parental  yearning,  which  only  parents  can 
understand,  is  to  save  our  children  from  all  we  can — 
alas,  how  little !  They  must  enter  upon  the  battle  of 
life ;  the  utmost  we  can  do  is  to  give  them  their  armor 
and  show  them  how  to  fight.  But  what  wise  father  or 
mother  would  thrust  them,  unarmed,  into  a  premature 
conflict,  putting  into  their  pure  minds  sinful  thoughts 
that  had  never  been  there  before,  and  sickening  their 
tender  hearts  by  needless  horrors  which  should  only  be 
faced  by  those  who  deal  with  evil  for  the  express  pur- 
pose of  amending  it  ?  Truly,  there  are  certain  novels 
which  I  have  lately  read  which  I  would  no  more  think 


142  ON   NOVELS   AND   NOVEL-MAKERS. 

of  leaving  about  on  my  drawing-room  table  than  I  would 
take  my  son  to  a  casino  in  order  to  teach  him  morals, 
or  make  my  daughter  compassionate-hearted  by  sending 
her  to  see  a  Spanish  bull-fight. 

Finally,  as  an  example  in  proof  of  many,  almost  all, 
the  arguments  and  theories  here  advanced,  I  would  ad- 
vise any  one  who  has  gone  through  a  course  of  modern 
fiction  to  go  through  another,  considered  a  little  out  of 
date,  except  by  the  old,  and,  I  am  glad  to  say,  the  very 
young.  Nothing  shows  more  clearly  the  taste  of  the 
uncorrupted,  healthy  palate  for  wholesome  food  than 
the  eagerness  with  which  almost  all  children,  or  children 
passing  into  young  people,  from  thirteen  and  upwards, 
devour  the  "  Waverley  Novels."  A  dozen  pages,  taken 
at  random  this  moment  from  a  volume  which  a  youth- 
ful reader — I  might  say  gormandizer — has  just  laid 
down,  will  instance  what  I  mean. 

It  is  the  story  of  Nanty  Ewart,  told  by  himself  to 
Alan  Fairford,  on  board  the  Jumping  Jenny  in  "  Ked- 
gauntlet."  Herein  the  author  touches  deepest  tragedy, 
blackest  crime,  and  sharpest  pathos  (instance  the  line 
where  Nanty  suddenly  stops  short  with  "  Poor  Jess !"). 
He  deals  with  elements  essentially  human,  even  vicious ; 
his  hero  is  a  "  miserable  sinner,"  no  doubt  of  that,  either 
in  the  author's  mind  or  the  impression  conveyed  to  that 
of  the  reader.  There  is  no  paltering  with  vice,  no  sen- 
timental glossing-over  of  sin :  the  man  is  a  bad  man — at 


ON  NOVELS  AND  NOVEL-MA£EK8.         143 

least  he  has  done  evil,  and  his  sin  has  found  him  out; 
yet  we  pity  him.  Though  handling  pitch,  we  are  not 
defiled ;  however  and  whatever  our  author  paints,  it  is 
never  with  an  uncertain  or  feeble  touch.  We  give  him 
our  hand,  and  are  led  by  him  fearlessly  into  the  very 
darkest  places,  knowing  that  he  carries  the  light  with 
him,  and  that  no  harm  will  come.  I  think  it  is  not  too 
much  to  say  that  we  might  go  through  the  "  Waverley 
Novels"  from  beginning  to  end  without  finding  one 
page,  perhaps  not  even  one  line,  that  .we  would  hesitate 
to  read  aloud  to  any  young  people  old  enough  to  under- 
stand that  evil  exists  in  the  world,  and  that  the  truly 
virtuous  are  those  who  deliberately  refuse  the  evil  and 
choose  the  good.  And  I — who,  having  written  novels 
all  my  life,  know  more  than  most  readers  how  to  ad- 
mire a  great  novelist — should  esteem  it  a  good  sign  of 
any  son  or  daughter  of  mine  who  would  throw  a  whole 
cart-load  of  modern  fiction  into  the  gutter,  often  its  fit- 
test place,  in  order  to  clasp  a  huge,  wholesome  armful 
of  Walter  Scott. 


LIGHT  IN  DARKNESS 

A  BIOGRAPHICAL  STUDY 


LIGHT  IN  DARKNESS. 


As  a  rule,  a  man's  life  ought  never  to  be  written  till 
he  is  dead.  Perhaps  not  until  he  has  been  dead  some 
years.  For  though,  in  one  sense,  none  can  know  him 
so  well  as  he  knows  himself,  and  of  external  knowledge 
gained  concerning  him  the  simplest  facts  are  liable  to 
continual  misrepresentation,  still  a  certain  amount  of 
distance  is  essential  to  the  breadth  and  truthfulness  of 
the  view — of  any  view.  Especially  of  that  most  mys- 
terious picture,  a  human  existence. 

Why  some  men  are  what  they  are;  the  influences 
which  made  them  so,  and  how  far  those  influences  were 
voluntary  or  accidental — in  short,  whether  we  make  our 
own  destiny  or  have  it  made  for  us — who  shall  solve 
this  eternal  problem  ?  Yet  anything  which  elucidates 
it  a  little,  which  nerves  us  under  the  grinding  hand  of 
fate  to  counteract  it,  apparently  by  the  power  of  our 
own  will — that  strange  quality  of  which  we  know  nei- 
ther what  it  is  nor  why  it  is  put  into  a  man,  into  some 
men  and  not  into  others  —  anything  which  does  this 
must  be  wholesome  and  good. 


148  LIGHT    IN   DARKNESS. 

Therefore,  when  asked  to  write  this  biography,  or 
rather  biographical  study,  of  a  life  not  nearly  done,  I 
consented,  because  it  seemed  to  ray  out  with  especial 
clearness  that  "  Light  in  Darkness  "  which  is  so  needed 
in  this  often  gloomy  world.  All  the  more  that  its  sub- 
ject is  a  blind  man,  blind  from  childhood,  and  endowed 
with  no  special  genius,  except  that  marvellous  quality 
just  referred  to — the  power  of  will :  the  most  myste- 
rious power  that  any  man  can  possess,  and  which  no 
man  can  absolutely  say  he  does  not  possess — until  he 
tries  to  use  it. 

To  encourage  this — to  give  hope  to  the  hopeless,  and 
faith  and  strength  to  those  who  have  done  with  hope — 
is  the  aim  of  the  present  article,  written  at  the  request 
of  its  "  subject,"  though,  I  ought  to  premise,  not  in  the 
way  he  intended  it.  He  came  to  me,  saying  that  in 
consequence  of  the  foolish,  fulsome,  and  altogether  in- 
correct biographies  that  were  made  about  him,  he  had 
been  urged  to  write  his  own  autobiography,  but  had  in- 
variably declined.  Still,  as  it  was  considered  that  his 
personal  history  would  advantage  his  life's  one  work, 
the  amelioration  of  the  condition  of  the  blind,  he  would 
consent  to  a  biography  being  done  of  him. 

"  But,"  he  added,  "  I  want  you  only  to  do  it,  because 
I  believe  you  will  do  it  simply  and  naturally,  without 
exaggeration  of  any  kind,  remembering  that  it  is  my 
work,  not  myself,  which  I  wish  to  have  brought  before 


LIGHT   IN   DAKKNESS.  149 

the  public.  Yon  shall  have  the  materials ;  use  them  as 
you  think  advisable.  I  know  you  will  do  your  best." 

I  hope  I  shall  do  my  best  to  justify  the  trust  of  so 
honest  a  man.  But  my  way  of  doing  it  is  not  his  way, 
and,  in  fairness  to  him,  I  ought  distinctly  to  say  so.  He 
wished  an  article  almost  wholly  upon  his  work ;  I  felt 
that  the  portraiture  of  the  man  who  has  been  at  the 
heart  of  the  work  was  the  thing  necessary.  That  con- 
ceded, he  wanted  me  to  write  the  biography  in  my  own 
words ;  but  when  I  came  to  go  over  the  mass  of  mate- 
rials sent,  I  found  that,  heterogeneous  and  fragmentary 
as  they  were,  dictated  at  odd  times,  and  amid  the  cease- 
less pressure  of  business,  there  was  in  these  reminis- 
cences a  freshness,  a  simplicity,  a  power  of  natural  and 
graphic  color,  which  no  recoloring  by  my  han,d  could 
ever  attain  to.  Therefore,  instead  of  translating  his 
language  into  my  own,  I  merely  condense  it ;  instead 
of  painting  my  sitter,  I  shall  make  him  unconsciously 
paint  himself.  He  does  not  like  it :  he  has  even  re- 
monstrated against  it,  as  giving  the  impression  of  ego- 
tism— the  last  quality  of  which  one  could  ever  accuse 
him.  But  I  keep  firm  to  my  principle  that  in  this  case 
his  own  words  are  better  than  any  words  of  mine,  and 
have  conscientiously  persisted  in  my  mode  of  work,  of 
which  1  take  the  sole  responsibility. 

The  "  hero  "  of  this  biographical  study  is  none  such 
in  the  ordinary  sense.  He  has  never  fought  a  battle, 


150  LIGHT   IN   DARKNESS. 

nor  ruled  the  destinies  of  a  nation.  The  only  destiny 
he  has  ruled  is  his  own,  the  only  battle  he  has  fought  is 
that  which  we  all  must  fight ;  but  he  has  had  to  fight  it 
in  darkness,  not  daylight,  for  Francis  Joseph  Campbell 
is  a  blind  man,  head  and  originator  of  the  Royal  Normal 
College  for  the  Blind,  Nor  wood,  Lori  don. 

My  first  acquaintance  with  him  was  on  this  wise. 
Some  years  ago,  a  friend,  Menella  Smedley — I  give  her 
name,  not  an  unknown  one,  though  her  sweet,  noble, 
beneficent  life  surpassed  her  books,  and  both  are  now 
ended  forever — Menella  said  to  me,  "  I  wish  you  would 
come  and  see  a  blind-school  newly  started  in  Paxton 
Terrace,  about  which  I  am  going  to  write  an  article.  I 
am  sure  you  would  be  interested." 

I  went,  and  I  was  interested :  both  by  the  children, 
their  happy  looks,  and  their  evidently  excellent  educa- 
tion, but  especially  by  their  principal  teacher,  the  head 
of  the  school,  Mr.  Campbell.  A  little  man,  of  unimpres- 
sive appearance,  whose  chief  characteristic  seemed  to  be 
a  quiet  decision  of  speech,  and  an  energetic  way  of  mov- 
ing about,  as  if  not  blind  at  all ;  a  person  eminently  "  all 
there,"  neither  self-occupied  nor  preoccupied,  but  alive 
to  everything  around  him,  putting  out  feelers,  as  it  were, 
on  every  side,  so  as  to  take  in  all  that  was  passing  and 
make  use  of  it. 

Such  was  the  impression  made  by  the  man  himself. 
His  surroundings  confirmed  it.  The  little  blind  family, 


LIGHT   IN   DARKNESS.  151 

for  it  was  like  a  family,  seemed  so  very  happy.  They 
laughed  and  chattered,  worked  and  played  at  all  man- 
ner of  school  studies  and  ordinary  school  plays,  just  like 
other  children  ;  but,  it  seemed,  more  gay  and  contented 
than  most  children.  And  their  principal,  Mr.  Camp- 
bell, appeared  to  be  the  busiest  and  cheerfullest  man 
alive. 

This  was  summer-time,  for  I  remember  we  soon  after 
invited  them  all  to  a  strawberry-party  in  our  hay-field, 
and  were  still  more  struck  by  the  gayety,  the  absolute 
happiness,  of  these  blind  children,  who  ran  about  the 
field  and  tumbled  in  the  hay  with  shrieks  of  enjoyment, 
so  that  to  pity  them,  or  even  to  guide  and  help  them, 
seemed  wholly  unnecessary. 

After  that  day,  year  by  year,  I  watched  the  school 
grow  into  a  college.  The  three  little  houses  in  Paxton 
Terrace  were  vacated  for  a  large  establishment  close  by, 
which  had  for  its  patrons  the  great  of  the  land.  Instead 
of  tea-parties  in  our  innocent  hay-field,  the  pupils  were 
invited  to  noble  mansions,  and  even  the  Queen  herself 
received  them  at  Windsor,  heard  them  sing,  and  spoke 
to  them  in  her  own  kindly  and  womanly  way.  In  short, 
within  a  very  brief  time,  I  believe  less  than  ten  years, 
the  TCoyal  Normal  College  has  grown  to  be  one  of  the 
most  notable  establishments  for  the  education  of  the 
blind  in  this  or  any  other  country. 

And  one  man  has  been  at  the  heart  of  it  all.     Does 


152  LIGHT   IN   DARKNESS. 

he  not  deserve  a  biography  ?  Or,  rather,  does  not  the 
world  require  to  see  not  only  the  work,  which  is  patent 
to  all,  but  the  man  who  has  done  it  ?  He,  living  still 
his  simple,  unobtrusive  life,  and  being  so  absorbed  in 
what  he  does  that  what  he  is  never  seems  to  occur  to 
him,  ought,  even  in  his  life-time,  to  be  thus  presented, 
almost  against  his  will,  to  a  world  which  has  so  few  like 
him,  struggling  manfully  against  evil  until  it  is  almost 
converted  into  good. 

But  let  him  speak  for  himself : 

"  I  was  born  in  Franklin  County,  Tennessee,  October  9th,  1834. 
When  about  three  and  a  half  years  old,  while  playing  iu  the  yard, 
a  sharp  thorn  of  an  acacia-tree  was  run  into  iny  eye.  Inflamma- 
tion ensued,  which,  by  bad  management  of  the  doctor,  was  allowed 
to  continue  till  the  sight  of  both  eyes  was  utterly  gone.  This 
calamity  produced  a  great  effect  upon  my  parents.  It  became  a 
law  of  the  family  that  I  was  to  do  exactly  what  I  pleased  and  as  I 
pleased.  So,  naughty  aud  perverse  as  I  may  have  been  —  must 
have  been — I  only  remember  two  punishments,  and,  strange  to  say, 
both  were  unjust.  The  first  was  once  when  my  two  brothers  and 
myself  were  playing  in  the  barn ;  they  both  began  fighting.  I 
begged  them  to  stop,  aud  my  voice  brought  my  father  to  the  spot. 
He  was  an  impulsive  man,  and  rushed  forward  to  punish  somebody. 
It  being  dark,  he  caught  me,  and  punished  me.  My  brothers 
rushed  to  my  rescue,  crying  out :  '  It  is  Joseph— poor,  blind  Jo- 
seph ! '  The  whole  family  were  in  tears ;  my  father  quite  incon- 
solable. I  was  only  six  years  old,  but  this  little  incident,  which  I 
remember  distinctly,  did  more  than  anything  to  prevent  my  becom- 
ing altogether  selfish. 


LIGHT   m   DAKKNES8.  153 

"  About  this  time  my  father  had  heavy  losses ;  nothing  remained 
to  us  but  a  small  farm  in  the  mountains,  where  father,  mother, 
and  all  the  children  had  to  work  early  and  late.  I  was  an  excep- 
tion. Nobody  expected  me  to  do  anything  ;  indeed,  I  was  allowed 
nothing  to  work  with,  for  fear  I  should  hurt  myself.  But  once,  my 
father  being  from  home,  my  mother  let  me  have  some  wood  to  cut 
up  and  an  axe.  When  my  father  returned,  he  was  amazed  to  find 
six  cords  of  wood  all  cut  and  carefully  packed  away.  He  praised 
my  brothers,  and  they  told  him  it  was  I.  Next  day  he  went  to  the 
village,  and  returned  with  a  beautiful  new  light  axe  for  me.  Ever 
after  he  took  the  greatest  pains  to  teach  me  all  sorts  of  farm- work. 
But  there  were  times  when  I  was  very  dull,  especially  during  the 
season  when  all  the  other  children  went  to  school.  Oh,  the  an- 
guish of  those  dreary,  idle,  lonely  days !  Long  before  evening,  I 
would  wander  off  on  the  road  to  the  school,  and  sit  listening  for 
the  far-off  voices  of  those  happy  boys  and  girls  coming  back  from 
their  lessons." 

No  words  can  add  to  the  pathos  of  this  simple  pict- 
ure. The  little  blind  boy,  the  coinpulsorily  idle  boy, 
listening  for  the  voices  of  the  busy  children — what  a 
warning  it  is  to  make  the  blind  self-dependent  from  the 
very  first,  and  to  teach  them  from  the  first,  as  much  as 
possible !  But  hope  was  dawning  for  poor  blind  Joseph. 

"  In  1844,  a  blind-school  was  opened  at  Nashville,  and  we  heard 
that  on  April  1st  ten  blind  children  would  be  received  there.  Day 
after  day  my  father  went  to  the  village,  five  miles  off,  to  make 
arrangements  for  me,  and  came  back,  saying, '  Melinda,  I  cannot  do 
it.'  My  mother,  a  brave,  noble  -  hearted  woman,  would  answer, 
'James,  we  must  do  it ;  it  is  the  one  thing  we  have  been  praying 
7* 


154  LIGHT   IN   DAKKNE88. 

for ;  we  shall  lose  our  chance.    The  school  may  be  soon  full,  and 
then—' 

"  So  she  and  the  neighbors  persuaded  him.  He  purchased  the 
things — a  'sewing -bee'  was  held  to  make  my  clothes;  and  in 
twenty-four  hours  I  was  ready  to  start.  A  kind  old  gentleman 
volunteered  to  take  me  in  his  buggy  to  Nashville.  My  father  went 
with  us  part  of  the  way,  riding  my  own  pet  horse.  When  he  said, 
in  a  choked  voice,  '  Good-bye,  Joseph,  my  son !'  for  the  first  time 
my  courage  failed.  Earnestly  I  hoped  the  school  might  be  full. 
When  arrived  there,  my  conductor  called  from  the  carriage,  '  Is 
this  the  blind-school,  and  is  it  full  yet  f  The  reply  '  No,'  though 
given  in  a  wonderfully  kiud  voice,  sounded  to  me  like  a  knell. 
We  were  made  welcome ;  the  one  pupil — his  name  was  James — 
was  called.  I  was  taken  to  the  schoolroom,  and  the  New  Testa- 
ment, in  embossed  letters,  was  put  into  my  hand.  I  was  electrified, 
and  so  eager  to  begin  that  the  teacher  sat  down  beside  me,  and  in 
three-quarters  of  an  hour  I  had  learned  the  whole  alphabet." 

So  here  was  struck  the  key-note  of  that  intense  crav- 
ing to  learn,  that  marvellous  persistency  in  learning, 
which  have  characterized  the  whole  life  of  this  blind 
man.  He  continues : 

"Those  were  halcyon  days.  The  school,  or  rather  family,  con- 
sisted of  the  earnest  teacher,  Mr.  Churchman,  a  blind  gentleman, 
his  affectionate  and  kindly  wife,  and  two  pupils.  We  took  all  our 
lessons  in  their  private  room.  But  soon  more  pupils  came,  and 
regular  school-work  had  to  begin— especially  music.  I  shall  never 
forget  my  first  singing-lesson.  I  had  succeeded  so  well  in  my 
other  studies  that  the  teacher  called  npon  me  first.  He  sounded 
A.  I  opened  my  mouth,  but  the  result  must  have  been  very  funny, 


LIGHT   IN   DAKKNESS.  155 

to  judge  by  the  effect  produced  on  my  listeners.  I  was  asked  to 
'sing  a  tune,'  in  vain;  then  the  teacher  hummed  one  for  me  to 
imitate,  also  in  vain.  It  was  discovered  that  I  could  not  tell  one 
tune  from  another." 

(A  very  curious  discovery,  viewed  in  the  light  of  a 
remark  which  Mr.  Campbell  cursorily  made,  after  the 
last  annual  concert  of  the  Normal  College,  about  a  can- 
tata which  I  praised.  "  Yes,  'but  we  had  little  time  to 
practise ;  I  began  reading  the  score  in  the  railway  be- 
tween the  Crystal  Palace  and  London  only  a  fortnight 
before  we  sang  it."  Also,  another  remark  which  I 
heard  from  a  noted  tenor  singer:  "That  blind  man, 
Mr.  Campbell,  teaches  music  better  than  any  sighted 
teacher  I  know.") 

"  Well,  I  was  considered  hopeless,  was  told  I  could  never  leavn 
music,  but  must  take  to  basket  aud  brush  making.  Piano  lessons 
were  regarded  as  a  waste  of  my  time,  and  forbidden  ;  the  other 
boys  laughed  at  me :  I  was  left  out  in  the  cold.  But,  determined 
not  to  be  beaten,  I  hired  one  of  the  boys  to  give  me,  secretly,  lessons 
in  music,  and  I  practised  whenever  I  could.  Three  mouths  after, 
the  music  -  master  (also  blind),  accidentally  entering  the  room, 
said,  'Who  is  that  playing  the  new  lesson  so  well?' — 'I,  sir.' — 
'  You,  Josie,  you  cannot  play  !  Come  here ;  what  have  you  learned  ?' 
— 'All  that  you  have  taught  the  other  boys,  sir.'  He  laughed. 
'  Well,  then,  sit  down  and  play  the  instruction-book  through  from 
the  beginning.'  I  did  it.  Fifteen  months  after  I  gained  the  prize 
for  pianoforte-playing — a  medal  with  the  motto  Musica  lux  in  tene- 
bris  (which  motto  now  adorns  our  music-hall  at  the  college).  Our 
school  being  very  poor,  we  could  only  afford  one  piano,  on  which 


156  LIGHT   IN   DARKNESS. 

there  were  so  many  to  play  that  I  had  to  rise  early  and  practise 
from  four  till  seven  A.M.  This  winter  of  1845-46  was  intensely 
cold  at  Nashville.  Our  river  was  frozen  over.  We  could  get  no 
coal ;  for  a  whole  month  we  had  to  manage  with  a  single  fire ;  very 
few  lessons  were  done,  but  I  practised  for  five  to  six  hours  daily, 
working  for  half  an  hour,  and  then  rushing  into  the  play-ground 
and  running  round  it  ten  times,  which  made  a  mile,  and  back  to 
my  piano  again." 

Such  a  boy  was  sure  to  make  a  remarkable  man.  By 
that  time  young  Campbell's  sight  must  have  been  quite 
gone,  but  not  without  leaving  some  faint  remembrance 
of  the  visible  world. 

"I  am  often  asked  if  I  can  remember  how  things  looked.  Ac- 
cording to  my  philosophy,  no  two  people  ever  see  a  thing  in  the 
same  way.  Thus,  if  I  wish  to  enjoy  a  beautiful  sight,  I  try  to  get 
several  people  to  look  at  it  and  describe  it  to  me  at  the  same  time. 
Each  sees  it  differently.  They  talk,  each  giving  a  separate  idea, 
and  I  catch  the  idea  of  all.  In  this  manner  I  have  seen  Niagara, 
the  White  Mountains,  and  even  the  Alps.  But  many  beautiful 
things,  seen  before  I  became  entirely  blind,  are  indelibly  impressed 
on  my  memory.  Such  as  our  grand  old  orchard,  with  its  peach, 
apple,  cherry,  and  plum  trees,  and  the  clover-field  of  twenty  acres 
— an  expanse  of  brilliant  red  and  white — stretching  out  behind  it. 
To  this  day,  I  often  go  to  my  piano  in  the  quiet  evening  and  see  it 
all  over  again— the  flowery  land  of  my  birth. 

"Then,  the  stars.  I  wonder  if  other  children  love  the  stars  as  I 
did !  As  my  sight  faded,  my  mother  took  me  out  every  night  be- 
fore putting  me  to  bed,  and  made  me  look  up  at  them  from  the 
piazza.  Little  by  little  the  curtain,  was  drawn :  one  night  I  could 


LIGHT    m   DAKKNESS..  157 

see  nothing.  '  Why  is  it  so  dark — why  does  not  God  light  up  the 
stars  for  your  little  boy  ?'  I  remember  to  this  day  the  tears  which 
fell  on  my  face  as  she  carried  me  up  to  bed. 

"One  vivid  recollection,  just  before  I  became  quite  blind,  influ- 
enced my  whole  life.  Wheat-threshing  was  going  on ;  I  sat  play- 
ing in  the  straw.  Our  old  colored  nurse,  Aunt  Maria,  somehow  got 
into  disgrace.  I  heard  the  stern  order,  '  Bring  the  cowhide !'  and 
saw,  and  shall  never  forget,  the  instrument  of  torture,  and  poor 
Aunt  Maria  kneeliug  before  it,  begging  for  mercy.  I  have  been  an 
abolitionist  ever  since,  thank  God ! 

"  A  few  years  later,  something  happened  which  firmly  settled  my 
convictions.  When  I  was  a  schoolboy  and  had  a  very  severe  ill- 
ness— a  fever — after  the  crisis,  I  remember  waking  up  as  if  out  of 
a  long  sleep.  It  was  the  middle  of  the  night — a  fire  was  burning ; 
I  heard  sobbing  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  and  asked  who  was  there. 
It  was  Aunt  Milly,  one  of  the  hired  servants  of  our  college,  and  the. 
mother  of  ten  children,  nine  of  whom  had  already  been  sold  and 
scattered  she  knew  not  where.  Mary,  her  last,  was  still  a  child ; 
her  master  had  promised  to  keep  her ;  and  in  hiring  Milly  to  our 
principal,  it  had  been  arranged  she  should  come  back  home  and  see 
the  child  regularly.  The  cause  of  her  sobbing,  which  I  insisted 
upon  her  telling  me,  she  explained  thus :  '  Massa  Joe,  I  went  last 
Saturday  home  to  see  Mary.  She  not  at  the  gate.  Milly  'fraid  she 
very  sick.  No  Mary  in  kitchen.  Cook  says, "  Go  and  ask  massa." 
Milly  rushed  in  to  the  massa.  "Where's  my  Mary?" — "If  you 
means  the  little  nigger,  she's  on  her  way  to  Mississippi,"  said  he ; 
and  told  me  not  to  fret  and  he'd  give  me  a  new  gown  at  Christmas. 
But  I  falls  on  my  knees  before  him.  "  So,  you  won't  be  good,"  says 
he,  "then  I'll  just  give  you  the  cowhide;"  and  Milly  got  it.'  Boy 
as  I  was,  and  Southern-born — after  this  story  I  was  an  abolitionist 
forever." 


158  LIGHT   IN   DAEKNESS. 

And  in  one  instance,  which  will  be  told  later  on,  Mr. 
Campbell  suffered  severely  for  his  principles.  But 
through  all  his  life,  his  great  aim,  after  the  instruc- 
tion of  the  blind,  has  been  the  enfranchisement  of  the 


He  has  given  me  various  "  jottings  of  child-life  "  and 
"jottings  of  school-life,"  from  which  I  have  taken  these 
extracts,  of  course  condensed,  for  a  practised  literary 
hand  can  usually  put  into  six  words  exactly  the  same 
thing  which  others  express  in  twelve ;  but  it  has  only 
been  condensation,  not  alteration,  and  I  call  my  readers' 
attention  to  it,  and  have  been  glad  to  use  it  thus  instead 
of  rewriting  it — just  to  show  in  what  a  strangely  pict- 
uresque and  graphic  manner  a  blind  man  can  put  things, 
to  say  nothing  of  the  deep  pathos  of  his  exceeding  sim- 
plicity. 

His  details  of  boy-life,  given  with  great  minuteness 
of  recollection,  show  that  little  Francis  Joseph  must 
have  been,  and  have  tried  hard  to  make  himself,  very 
much  the  same  as  other  boys. 

"  I  was  very  fond  of  hunting  and  fishing.  In  company  with  my 
brothers,  I  would  ascend  the  most  inaccessible  mountain  cliffs.  I 
became  an  expert  climber.  Once,  far  from  home,  we  decided  to 
quit  the  path,  and  descend  the  steep  face  of  the  mountain,  swing- 
ing ourselves  from  tree  to  tree.  I  could  climb  any  tree  that  I  could 
clasp  with  my  arms.  In  my  boy-life  among  the  mountains,  my 
chief  enemies  were  the  snakes — rattlesnakes,  copperheads,  cotton- 


LIGHT   IN   DARKNESS.  159 

months,  and  vipers.  Often  I  stepped  unconsciously  over  them — 
sometimes  on  them.  Once,  working  in  the  cornfield,  I  took  up  a 
large  snake  in  an  armful  of  corn.  It  struggled  to  free  itself;  I  felt 
it,  and  threw  it  violently  from  me,  which  probably  saved  my  life. 
The  snake  was  killed,  and  I  resumed  my  work.  I  wonder  if  I  have 
the  moral  courage  to  face  equal  dangers  and  difficulties  still ! 

"  To  all  our  farm  animals  I  was  devoted,  especially  to  the  horses. 
My  father  kept  one  specially  for  me.  She  was  a  fiery,  wide-awake 
little  cob;  but,  if  she  had  been  a  human  being,  she  could  not  have 
understood  my  blindness  better.  She  would  come  to  me  anywhere, 
wait  patiently  for  me  to  mount,  which  I  could  do  without  saddle  or 
bridle;  and,  though  on  her  mettle  with  others,  with  me  she  always 
carefully  picked  her  way.  Even  in  the  mountains  I  could  trust 
her  implicitly,  giviug  her  the  rein  in  difficult  places,  sure  that  she 
would  carry  me  safely  over. 

"  My  father's  farm  was  heavily  mortgaged ;  he  could  not  afford 
me  a  university  education,  so  I  determined  to  earn  the  money  and 
educate  myself.  Giving  music-lessons  was  the  only  way.  So  I  got 
two  pupils,  daughters  of  a  Mr.  Allen.  One  of  these  young  ladies 
seated  herself  at  the  piano — I  sat  beside  her.  '  What  shall  I  do  ?' 
she  said.  Now,  I  could  play  brilliant  pieces.  As  a  blind  pianist,  I 
had  been  petted  and  praised ;  I  thought  myself  a  wonderful  mu- 
sician. But  my  knowledge  was  superficial ;  I  had  not  been  trained 
in  the  art  of  teaching.  What  did  I  really  kuow  ?  How  was  the 
music  written  ?  How,  above  all,  was  I  to  teach  a  sighted  person  ? 
And  I  must  teach.  It  was  my  only  way  of  getting  education. 

"  I  said  to  Miss  Allen  and  her  sister  that  they  must  just  play  to 
me  to-day ;  next  week  we  would  make  a  regular  beginning.  Then 
I  walked  off  towards  the  cemetery.  The  man  was  just  locking  up, 
but  he  let  me  in.  I  went  to  the  monument  of  General  Carroll,  and 
sat  down  on  its  lowest  step.  What  was  I  to  do  ?  Even  to  live,  I 


160  LIGHT   IN   DABKNESS. 

must  earn  money  —  to  educate  myself  well,  considerable  money. 
And  my  music,  which  I  had  depended  on,  had  crumbled  away  at 
the  first  touch.  Our  teacher  at  the  blind-school  did  not  know  his 
business.  This  I  now  thoroughly  realized.  He  could  not  help  me. 
What  must  I  do  ?  The  chilliness  of  night  came  on.  The  city  bells 
seemed  to  ring  with  a  mournful  sound.  Suddenly  I  thought  of 
General  Carroll,  on  whose  tomb  I  sat.  He  once  was  a  poor  boy 
like  me,  yet  for  twelve  years  he  was  the  idolized  governor  of  Ten- 
nessee. I  sprang  to  my  feet,  my  miud  made  up. 

"  That  night  I  went  to  find  a  Mr.  Taylor,  an  Euglishman  ;  pupil 
of  Moscheles  and  Mendelssohn — one  of  the  best  pianists  in  Ameri- 
ca. But  he  had  had  an  unhappy  life,  and  was  considered  a  sort  of 
bear.  Not  asking  me  to  sit  down,  he  inquired  what  I  wanted.  I 
stammered  out,  '  Mr.  Taylor,  I  am  a  fool.' — '  Well,  Joseph,  my  boy, 
I  knew  that,  I  have  always  known  it ;  but  it  is  less  your  fault  than 
that  of  your  teachers.'  Then  I  told  him  my  story,  and  implored 
him  to  let  me  begin  music  again  under  his  guidance  from  the  very 
beginning.  '  Do  you  know  what  you  ask,  boy  ?  Your  teacher  is 
my  friend.  He  is  a  good  violin-player,  but  he  cannot  teach  the 
piano.  Get  his  consent,  and  I  will  teach  you.' 

"  The  clock  struck  ten  as  he  spoke ;  but  I  went  oif  direct  to  a 
good  friend  of  mine,  Mrs.  Bell,  who  was  one  of  the  great  influences 
in  our  blind-school,  and  knew  everybody.  I  told  her  everything. 
She  arranged  the  matter.  The  following  Thursday,  at  seven  P.M.,  I 
was  seated  by  Mr.  Taylor  at  his  piano,  and  did  not  leave  it  till  elev- 
en. Next  day  the  two  Miss  Aliens  had  their  first  lesson  from  me. 
A  year  later,  when  I  was  just  sixteen  years  old,  I  was  appointed 
teacher  of  music  in  the  very  institution  where  I  had  first  been  told 
I  could  never  learn  music." 

These  facts  involve  a  curious  and  much  -  disputed 


LIGHT   IN   DAEKNESS.      ,  161 

theory.  Most  musicians  will  agree  that  to  attempt  to 
teach  their  beloved  art  to  any  one  not  a  born  artist,  or, 
short  of  that,  with  at  least  a  tolerable  ear,  is  worse  than 
useless,  impossible — some  may  say  even  culpable,  as  it 
wastes  time  which  might  be  better  employed  upon 
something  else.  Yet  I  have  heard  it  asserted,  and  by 
an  accomplished  musician  and  music-teacher,  that  every 
human  being  has  an  ear  and  a  voice,  if  properly  culti- 
vated. And  Mr.  Campbell's  own  experience  is  that  al- 
most none  of  his  pupils,  when  they  first  came  to  him, 
showed  special  genius  for  music. 

Therefore,  in  his  case  as  in  many  others,  we  must  fall 
back  upon  the  theory  that  work  is  genius.  Also  that 
the  quiet  darkness  in  which  the  blind  live  is  peculiarly 
favorable  to  the  development  of  any  gift  connected  with 
the  two  senses  which  they  have  in  compensating  pro- 
portion to  the  one  lost  sense  of  sight — viz.,  hearing  and 
touch.  Moreover,  music,  and  the  making  of  it,  is  such 
an  exceeding  happiness,  a  mixture  of  toil  and  pleasure, 
in  which  the  pleasure  far  surpasses  the  toil,  that  the  de- 
duction drawn  is  obvious.  In  all  systems  for  the  edu- 
cation of  the  blind,  with  a  view  to  lifting  them  to  the 
ordinary  level  of  self-dependent,  self-supporting  human 
beings,  music  ought  to  hold  the  primary  place — for  in 
this,  so  far  from  being  more  heavily  weighted  in  the 
race  than  their  brethren,  the  chances  are  that  they  will 
run  lighter,  being  disencumbered  of  some  hindrances 


162  LIGHT   IN   DABKNESS. 

which  sighted  people  have  to  contend  against.  For  the 
same  reason,  many  pianoforte-tuners  allege  that,  when 
a  blind  tuner  is  properly  taught  his  business,  he  sur- 
passes all  others,  from  his  excessive  delicacy  and  exacti- 
tude of  ear. 

Thus  we  find  the  blind  boy  fairly  plunged  into  life 
as  a  young  man,  maintaining  himself  by  music  lessons, 
while  he  found  time  to  continue  his  education  in  other 
branches.  His  college  curriculum  included  mathemat- 
ics, Latin,  and  Greek.  The  first  he  had  great  capacity 
for;  the  two  latter  were  "positive  drudgery." 

"Nevertheless,  I  was  determined  to  succeed.  At  first  I  simply 
occupied  my  seat  in  the  class ;  but  I  well  remember  the  surprise  of 
our  professor  when  one  day  I  quietly  asked  him  if  the  translation 
was  correct.  '  Why  not  ?'— '  For  two  reasons,  the  second  being  that, 
in  order  to  cross,  the  translator  has  made  the  army  march  down  the 
river,  when  it  should  have  marched  up.' — '  Indeed !  give  me  the 
book.'  He  found  it  was  really  so.  Afterwards  he  made  me  recite 
and  translate,  and  tested  me  thoroughly  for  half  an  hour.  Then  he 
said  to  the  class,  '  Young  gentlemen,  I  think  we  have  all  had  a  les- 
son to-day,'  shook  my  hand  cordially,  and  invited  me  to  diue  with 
him." 

Besides  being  a  studious  boy,  young  Campbell  must 
have  been  an  extremely  practical  one.  He  tells  a  story, 
funny  enough,  of  the  way  he  secretly  led  a  revolution — 
not  unnecessary — with  regard  to  the  food  of  the  school, 
which  was  very  bad. 


LIGHT   IN   DARKNESS.  163 

"We  were  informed  that  the  low  funds  of  the  school  made  rigid 
economy  necessary.  But,  while  we  lived  poorly,  we  knew  that  our 
teachers  lived  exceedingly  well.  Not  that  we  could  see  the  roast 
turkeys,  geese,  etc.,  but  we  could  smell  them.  Our  remonstrances 
were  in  vain.  We  called  an  'indignation'  meeting.  After  much 
time  wasted  in  talking,  I  urged  that  a  small  committee  should  he 
appointed — three  of  us.  Though  I  was  the  youngest,  they  made 
me  one.  That  night,  when  all  were  asleep,  I  managed  to  get  into 
the  larder,  and  finding  there  a  quantity  of  dainty  food,  pies,  jel- 
lies, etc.,  took  away  specimens  of  it,  and  also  of  our  food,  the  mis- 
erable bread,  butter,  and  sausages,  given  us  daily.  With  this  tell- 
tale basket  in  my  possession,  I  dared  not  go  to  sleep,  but  waited 
till  half-past  five,  when  the  bell  summoned  us  to  rise  and  go  for 
our  walk.  During  the  walk  I  left  my  basket  with  Aunt  Sarah,  a 
colored  woman  I  knew,  who  kept  a  shop.  In  the  afternoon  I  re- 
claimed it,  and  carried  it  to  the  President  of  the  Board,  a  kind  old 
gentleman,  to  whom  I  told  my  story.  He  disbelieved  me.  '  Boys, 
this  will  never  do.' — '  Would  you  see  the  food,  sir  f — '  Yes,  then  I 
will  believe,  and  not  till  then.'  I  produced  the  basket,  and  he  did 
believe.  He  asked  me,  in  a  tremulous  voice,  how  I  got  at  the 
things,  and  I  told  him  the  whole  truth.  '  Boy,'  said  he,  '  that  was 
a  very  daring  thing  to  do,  but  plucky,  nevertheless.  Leave  those 
things  with  me,  and  I  will  see  to  the  matter.'  He  did,  for  we  heard 
that  nest  afternoon  a  special  meeting  of  directors  was  called,  and 
within  a  few  days  it  became  known  that  the  principal  had  re- 
signed. Whether  he  ever  knew  the  part  I  had  had  in  the  affair 
I  cannot  tell,  but  certainly  I  myself  have  never  regretted  it." 

There  is,  there  necessarily  must  be,  a  little  touch  of 
unconscious  pride  in  these  details.  But  it  is  pride,  not 


164:  LIGHT   IN   DARKNESS. 

so  much  in  personal  gifts,  which  are  the  source  of  most 
people's  vanity — God  knows  why,  since  it  is  he  alone 
who  gives  them — as  in  the  noble  use  of  these  gifts,  such 
as  they  are,  whether  small  or  great ;  and  it  is  to  spur 
others  on  to  use  theirs  that  Mr.  Campbell  tells  his  most 
touching  and  heroic  story. 

"  At  this  time,"  he  proceeds,  "  on  account  of  my  teaching  and 
daily  attendance  at  the  college,  I  was  obliged  to  work  day  and 
night  as  well.  I  employed  two  readers ;  one  read  for  me  till  ten 
P.M.;  then  I  went  to  bed  with  an  alarm-clock  set  at  two  A.M. 
When  it  sounded  I  sprang  up,  dragged  my  second  reader  out  of 
bed,  and  as  quickly  as  possible  resumed  my  work." 

Of  course  this  could  not  last.  It  was  the  old  story  of 
"  burning  the  candle  at  both  ends."  One  day  young 
Campbell  suddenly  fell  ill.  The  doctor  told  him  unless 
he  took  a  three  months'  holiday  he  had  no  chance  of 
life.  At  first  he  absolutely  refused  to  give  up  work : 
then  common-sense  came  to  his  rescue,  and  prevented 
his  committing  this  moral  suicide.  He  allowed  his 
sister  to  carry  him  off  to  the  station,  and  then  home, 
simply  inquiring  "  if  his  books  were  packed  2"  "  Yes," 
answered  the  wise  doctor,  "  packed  where  you  will  nev- 
er find  them."  So,  bookless,  the  student  went  off  on 
his  long  holiday  to  "  rest,"  as,  he  says,  "  we  so  often 
hear  people  talk  of  resting."  But  his  father  was  living 
five  miles  away  from  the  beloved  mountain  home,  in  a 


LIGHT   IN   DARKNESS.  165 

village,  where  to  encamp,  amidst  its  quiet  stagnation, 
would  have  been  to  this  ardent  nature  "like  a  sen- 
tence of  three  months'  imprisonment."  He  announced 
his  intention  of  going  on  to  the  mountain  springs,  a  fa- 
vorite resort,  where  some  families  had  built  themselves 
summer  cottages. 

"  So,  my  brother,  a  friend,  and  myself  set  out  on  foot.  The  first 
carried  a  rifle,  the  second  a  bag  of  books  for  me,  and  I  an  axe,  bought 
on  purpose  for  the  expedition.  I  was  not  very  vigorous,  so  we 
reached  the  springs  late  at  night,  receiving  a  hearty  welcome.  I 
went  to  bed,  slept  for  twelve  hours,  and  was  fresh  again.  Then  I 
determined  to  go  on  to  a  cabin  five  miles  farther,  which  belonged 
to  iny  uncle,  and  was  sometimes  occupied  by  his  men  when  tend- 
ing cattle  on  the  hills.  We  took  a  day's  food,  and  walked  slowly, 
reaching  the  hut  about  three  P.M.  It  was  much  out  of  repair,  but 
I  only  wanted  a  place  to  sleep  in  at  night,  and  shelter  me  when  it 
rained.  Two  miles  below  it  was  my  uncle's '  house.  There  we 
went,  and  my  aunt  promised  to  supply  us  with  food,  on  condition 
that  we  sent  for  or  fetched  it." 

What  a  picture  of  life  among  the  mountains,  the  glo- 
rious, free,  wild  life,  so  delightful  to  the  young,  if  only 
they  have  eyes  to  see !  This  young  man  had  none,  yet 
he  seems  to  have  done  just  as  well  without  them. 

"Our  first  few  days  we  spent  in  reconnoitring  our  surround- 
ings. The  hut  stood  within  a  few  feet  of  the  brow  of  the  moun- 
tain. If  I  threw  a  stone  down,  I  could  hear  it  bounding  down  for 
ever  so  long.  By-and-by  I  learned  to  clamber  up  and  down  this 


166  LIGHT   IN   DARKNESS. 

cliff,  and  found  ten  enormous  trees  growing  there,  one  above  the 
other,  the  upper  one  being  only  a  few  feet  from  the  hut  door,  the 
lowest  about  two  hundred  feet  beneath.  So  I  planned  and  pro- 
posed what  backwoodsmen  call  a  '  cataract,'  and  sallied  forth,  axe 
in  hand,  to  attack  my  first  tree,  about  four  feet  in  diameter.  My 
strength  was  below  par.  I  got  on  slowly.  The  other  two  laughed 
at  me,  and  suggested  I  should  ask  for  help.  But  my  brother  was 
always  out  hunting,  and  he  and  the  other  lad  took  turns  in  fetch- 
ing our  food  and  in  reading  to  me  of  evenings.  The  weather  was 
glorious ;  I  soon  drank  in  health  at  every  pore,  and  was  able  to  cut 
the  whole  ten  trees,  three  parts  through,  in  about  a  month. 

"  At  last  all  was  ready.  The  biggest  tree — the  one  next  to  our 
hut — was  hewn  through,  except  a  very  small  bit,  and  prepared  to 
fall.  We  were  greatly  excited,  for  the  success  of  my  plan  depended 
upon  the  way  the  trees,  beginning  with  the  lowest,  had  been  cut, 
so  as  to  fall  straight.  I  examined  all,  one  by  one,  then  climbed 
back  to  the  topmost  tree,  and  applied  my  axe  vigorously.  Ten 
minutes  more,  and  I  heard  my  brother  call  out,  'Hurrah!  it's  go- 
ing !'  We  all  leaped  aside,  lest  we  should  be  struck  by  the  falling 
branches.  What  a  turmoil!  Tree  after  tree  began  to  go,  each 
pressing  upon  each,  till  the  whole  of  them  went  plunging  down 
the  mountain-side.  The  topmost  one  finally  found  a  resting-place 
far  below.  Triumphant  with  success,  we  three  boys  shouted  and 
threw  up  our  hats ;  and,  finally,  we  brought  our  supper  and  laid  it 
out  on  the  stump  of  the  huge  tree  which  had  completed  our  'cat- 
aract.'" 


So  vigorous  and  wholesome  a  life  soon  restored  the 
health  which  for  once  he  had  foolishly  risked;  and 
young  Campbell,  after  the  three  months'  holiday  which 


LIGHT   IN   DARKNESS.  167 

he  had  faithfully  promised  to  take,  returned  to  his  work 
full  of  strength,  energy,  and  enthusiasm.  Thus  early  he 
practically  proved  the  wisdom  of  one  of  his  pet  theo- 
ries in  later  life,  that  the  physical  education  of  the  blind 
should  be  held  of  equal  importance  with  their  mental 
development.  This,  especially,  because  experience  has 
convinced  him  that  their  average  standard  of  health  is 
many  degrees  below  the  average  of  sighted  persons. 
So  much  blindness  originates  in  congenital  and  hered- 
itary disease,  that  both  in  those  born  blind,  and  in  cases 
where  some  unfortunate  accident  has  resulted  in  inflam- 
mation or  other  weakness  of  the  organ,  we  have  more 
to  contend  against  than  in  ordinary  healthy  subjects. 
Also,  the  tender  trammels  in  which  the  blind  are  mis- 
takenly kept  by  their  friends,  against  which  "  poor 
blind  Joseph "  struggled  so  successfully ;  the  want  of 
movement,  exercise,  and  general  sanitary  life — help  to 
keep  them  sensitive  and  delicate  physically.  As  a  rule, 
the  lesson  we  learn  touching  the  blind — nay,  all  who  are 
afflicted  with  any  inevitable  life-long  deprivation — is 
this:  Pity  them  not,  except  silently.  Encourage,  help 
them ;  but  also  teach  them  to  help  themselves.  How- 
ever little  they  can  do,  let  them  do  it.  Accustom  them 
to  face  their  misfortune,  and  instead  of  making  it  an 
excuse  for  helplessness,  idleness,  ill-humor — faults  which 
we  blame  in  others,  but  condone  in  them — to  use  it  as 
a  spur  for  courage  and  heroism.  Sympathy  they  must 


168  LIGHT   IN   DABKNESS. 

and  will  have ;  but  I  think  the  saddest  sufferer  will  admit 
that  it  is  always  better  to  be  reverenced  than  to  be  pitied. 

Pity  is  certainly  the  last  thing  which  Francis  Joseph 
Campbell  seems  to  have  expected  or  desired.  On  his 
return  to  Nashville,  the  young  man  threw  himself  into 
the  very  thick  of  the  battle,  the  sore  battle  of  life,  in 
which  so  many  fail  miserably,  even  when  blessed  with 
all  he  had  not.  But  his  courage  and  energy  were  un- 
conquerable. 

The  blind-school  to  which  he  belonged  was  now 
wanting  pupils.  Parents  were  not  alive  to  its  advan- 
tages, and  refused  to  send  their  children.  Campbell 
was  requested  to  make  a  short  holiday  tour  through 
Tennessee,  and,  having  discovered  by  means  of  the  cen- 
sus how  many  blind  children  there  were,  to  appeal  to 
their  parents,  and  by  every  possible  means  to  "  compel 
them  to  come  in."  He  took  a  young  friend  with  him, 
and  started  on  horseback  from  his  own  home  in  Frank- 
lin County. 

Their  adventures  are  as  good  as  a  fairy  tale ;  and,  to 
any  one  who  did  not  know  the  hero  of  them,  would  ap- 
pear almost  incredible.  But  this  blind  man  had  the 
indomitable  will  which,  like  faith,  can  "remove  moun- 
tains," or  climb  over  them.  I  shall  let  him  tell  his  own 
story : 

"  Knowing  the  census  was  very  imperfect,  I  visited  all  schools, 
calledupon  doctors,  clergymen,  and  even  blacksmiths — countryfolks 


LIGHT   IN   DARKNESS.  169 

always  gossip  while  their  horses  are  shod— and  by  the  end  of  the 
first  week  had  found  three  blind  children  to  send  to  Nashville.  With 
regard  to  the  third,  I  have  some  curious  recollections.  His  name 
was  Cornelius  Foster.  To  get  him,  I  had  to  cross  the  Hiawassee,  a 
mountain  torrent.  There  were  no  bridges  over  it,  but  there  were  a 
ferry  and  a  ford,  the  former  only  used  when  the  latter  was  impassa- 
ble. Nobody  told  us  of  it,  so  we  rode  into  the  stream,  and  soon 
found  ourselves  plunged  over  a  steep  bank  into  deep  water.  It 
was  my  first  experience  of  the  kind.  I  called  to  George  to  let  his 
horse  go  as  free  as  possible,  soothed  Nelly,  and  sat  perfectly  still  on 
her  back.  She  neither  returned,  nor  tried  to  climb  up  the  bank, 
but  with  true  instinct  swam  diagonally,  till  we  gained  the  opposite 
shore.  There  the  ferryman  called  out  to  us,  and  explained  how  we 
had  missed  the  ford,  adding  that  he  would  not  have  crossed  as  we 
did  for  a  thousand  dollars.  We  were  wet  through,  but  soon  dried 
in  the  July  sun  of  Tennessee.  I  found  ray  little  blind  boy,  arranged 
with  his  parents,  took  him  up  behind  me  on  Nelly,  rode  to  meet  the 
other  two  boys  at  a  station,  and  placed  them  all  in  charge  of  the 
conductor  of  the  Nashville  train,  while  I  went  farther  in  search  of 
other  children. 

"  I  found  by  the  census  a  little  girl  named  Agnes  Jones ;  and  she 
lived  on  Flint  Mountain,  forty  miles  off.  George  and  I  started. 
Our  route  was  by  Catawba  River,  then  up  a  swift  watercourse 
called  Elk  Creek,  which,  much  swollen  by  recent  rains,  wound  to 
and  fro  through  a  long  gorge.  We  crossed  it,  I  counted,  nineteen 
times.  Late  in  the  afternoon  we  left  this  watercourse,  and  followed 
the  zigzag  path  to  the  top  of  the  Flint  Mountain,  which  wo  reached 
at  sunset,  but  had  still  four  miles  farther  to  go.  George  was  no 
mountaineer,  but  a  city  boy.  Completely  worn  out  with  fatigue, 
he  asked  if  I  meant  to  camp  out  all  night.  At  that  minuto  we 
heard  a  deep  roll  of  thunder,  mountain  thunder,  and  at  once  the 

8 


170  LIGHT   IN   DAEKNESS. 

storm  -was  upon  ns.  Our  horses  became  unmanageable ;  we  had  to 
dismount  and  hold  them.  The  storm  ended  in  total  darkness.  We 
decided  to  go  back.  George  declared  it  was  impossible  to  find  the 
path;  so  I  bade  him  hold  the  horses  while  I  found  it.  Then  I 
went  ahead,  leading  Nelly.  I  should  have  felt  no  fear,  but  for  rat- 
tlesnakes, of  which  I  knew  thirty  had  been  killed  during  the  sum- 
mer. When  the  path  grew  smooth  we  mounted;  but  my  hand 
shook  so  I  could  scarcely  hold  the  bridle.  It  rained  still,  and 
George  declared  he  could  see  nothing.  So  I  kept  the  lead,  telliug 
him  I  could  find  the  way  by  the  sound  of  the  waterfall,  which  I 
heard.  But  my  real  trust  was  in  Nelly.  We  came  back  to  the 
creek,  which  we  had  to  cross.  At  first  I  hesitated,  but  Nelly  did 
not.  My  feet  went  under  water,  and  I  thought  all  was  lost ;  but 
this  proved  to  be  the  deepest  part;  we  were  soon  safely  over  at 
the  other  side." 

The  self-reliant  blind  man  and  his  well-trained  horse, 
the  courageous  cleverness  with  which  he  made  .use  of 
his  very  infirmity  to  guide  others  through  the  darkness 
which  was  so  familiar  to  him — surely  no  one  could  read 
this  little  anecdote  without  feeling  more  than  astonish- 
ment— admiration. 

Agnes  Jones  was  safely  "  caught,"  put  behind  him 
upon  Nelly's  back,  and  carried  fifty  miles,  to  where  an- 
other little  girl,  Katie  Fleming,  was  brought  to  meet 
her.  A  third,  Lizzie  Kelton,  was  half  coaxed,  half  kid- 
napped out  of  the  possession  of  a  drunken  father,  and 
also  carried  upon  Nelly's  back,  at  first  voluntarily,  then 
"screaming  and  kicking" — till  her  adventurous  captor 


LIGHT   IN   DAKKNESS.  171 

soothed  her,  wrapped  her  in  a  sheepskin,  fastened  her 
with  straps  to  his  waist,  and  she  fell  asleep.  Thus  bur- 
dened, he  rode  many  miles  on  the  road  to  Knoxville. 
Two  more  captures,  Eebecca  Smith  and  Nelly  Ham- 
rnondtree,  did  this  benevolent  buccaneer  succeed  in 
making.  In  most  cases,  the  mothers  of  the  children 
saw  the  advantages  before  them,  and  consented  to  their 
going  to  school  —  the  fathers  were  more  difficult  to 
persuade.  Still,  Mr.  Campbell  did  persuade  them  all 
at  last. 

"  I  sent  George  home  with  the  horses  ;  and  I,  with  my  little  girls, 
went  by  train  to  Dalton,  Georgia ;  then  through  Chattanooga,  on 
to  Nashville.  I  had  spent  about  four  times  the  money  voted  to  me 
for  this  tour:  had  it  failed,  I  should  have  been  severely  blamed. 
But  it  succeeded,  and  the  extra  sum  was  cheerfully  paid.  My  little 
girls  did  well.  Years  afterwards,  when  teaching  in  Boston,  both 
Lizzie  Kelton  and  Nelly  Hammondtree  sent  me  tokens  of  remem- 
brance. Each  had  prospered  in  life,  and,  moreover,  each  had  re- 
claimed the  drunken  father  who  tried  to  prevent  her  going  to  the 
school." 

In  1856,  Mr.  Campbell  resigned  his  connection  with 
this  school — the  Tennessee  Institution  for  the  Blind — 
and  went  North  to  realize  the  dream  of  his  life  and 
study  at  Harvard  University.  Previously  he  went  to 
spend  some  months  at  Bridgewater.  There  he  met  a 
Miss  Bond.  In  August  of  the  same  year  he  married 
her,  and  within  a  month  of  that  day  all  his  savings  were 


172  LIGHT   IN    DARKNESS. 

lost  by  the  sudden  failure  of  a  firm  to  which  he  had  in- 
trusted them.  Twenty  pounds,  which  he  happened  to 
have  in  his  pocket,  alone  remained  to  him — except  his 
indomitable  courage. 

"  Within  forty-eight  hours  I  was  on  my  way  South  once  more, 
and  had  accepted  the  musical  directorship  of  a  large  and  flourish- 
ing girls'  school.  But  I  had  scarcely  entered  upon  my  work,  when 
a  lion  appeared  in  the  path." 

This  was  the  discovery  among  the  townsmen  of  his 
abolitionist  opinions.  They  argued  with  him,  abused 
him,  even  hinted  at  "lynching"  him.  Finally,  they 
gave  notice  to  all  the  parents  of  his  pupils  that  the 
lessons  must  be  stopped.  It  was  vain  to  fight  longer 
against  the  stream.  Next  day  he  and  his  wife  depart- 
ed from  their  home,  which  he  did  not  again  revisit  for 
eighteen  years. 

They  went  first  to  Nashville,  where  the  next-door 
neighbor  was  a  Baptist  clergyman.  One  Monday  morn- 
ing they  heard  proceeding  thence  the  most  heart-rend- 
ing screams.  A  servant  told  them  that  when  the  cler- 
gyman's wife  had  gone  to  church  she  left  two  colored 
girls  to  wash  the  floor,  which  they  did  badly.  Being 
Sunday,  she  could  not  whip  them  then,  but  "at  four 
o'clock  on  Monday  morning  massa  came  in  and  whipped 
us  dreadfully  " — whipping  also  a  boy  of  thirteen,  recent- 
ly purchased  in  Georgia,  and  unaccustomed  to  the  cold 


LIGHT   IN    DAKKNESSV  173 

of  Nashville,  where  the  winter  was  exceptionally  se- 
vere. 

"Poor  Ecnben  crawled  over  on  his  hands  and  knees  to  beg  for 
something  to  eat.  He  had  been  made  to  chop  wood  in  his  bare 
feet;  they  were  horribly  frostbitten,  and  two  of  his  toes  had 
dropped  off.  He  had  received  five  hundred  lashes  that  after- 
noon." 

In  an  agony  of  indignation,  Mr.  Campbell  went  to 
Dr.  Winston,  a  benevolent  and  philanthropic  man  ;  but 
philanthropy  failed  here. 

"'My  young  friend,'  said  he,  laying  his  hand  on  my  arm  with 
great  feeling,  '  we  are  all  in  this  business.  If  we  begin,  where  will 
it  end  ?  No,  no ;  we  may  wish  for  a  different  state  of  things,  but 
we  are  powerless  to  bring  it  about.'  " 

Fate,  however,  was  not  powerless,  but  did  bring 
about,  in  strange  and  terrible  ways,  the  deserved  end. 
Awful  as  the  American  Civil  War  was,  probably  noth- 
ing short  of  it  would  have  accomplished  the  freedom  of 
the  slave. 

Mr.  Campbell  had  nothing  to  do  with  that  fighting, 
his  own  battle  of  life  being  hard  enough.  He  got  tem- 
porary work  at  the  Wisconsin  Institution  for  the  Blind  ; 
then  he  had  to  leave  it,  and  bring  his  wife  for  medical 
help  to  Boston.  "  At  this  time,"  he  says,  "  we  were  so 
poor  that  my  own  food  never  cost  me  more  than  six- 
pence a  day."  He  was  in  a  strange  city  —  his  wife 


174:  LIGHT   IN    DARKNESS. 

placed  as  a  private  patient  in  a  hospital,  and  himself 
seeking  everywhere  for  work. 

"  One  day  I  resolved  to  visit  the  Perkins  Institution  for  the  Blind. 
It  was  four  miles  off.  I  had  to  walk  and  find  my  way.  Broadway 
is  a  long  street ;  the  institution  was  still  a  mile  off.  I  knew  the 
sidewalk  was  broad,  and  the  cross-streets  ran  at  right  angles.  So 
exact  had  been  my  information  that  when  I  felt  the  iron  fence  of 
the  institution  I  was  able  to  walk  up  the  stone  steps  and  ring  the 
bell.  I  asked  for  Dr.  Howe,  the  principal.  When  he  came,  he  in- 
quired if  I  was  partially  blind.  '  No,  totally  so.' — '  But  I  have  been 
watching  you  up  Broadway.  You  avoided  the  trees  and  the  peo- 
ple ;  you  walked  up  and  rang  the  bell.  Surely  you  can  see  light !' 
I  replied  by  taking  off  my  glasses.  He  was  satisfied." 

After  a  day  spent  in  examining  the  institution,  espe- 
cially the  musical  department,  Dr.  Howe  asked  his  visit- 
or what  he  thought  of  it.  Mr.  Campbell's  answer  was 
wholly  unsatisfactory.  Music  had  been  a  total  failure 
in  the  school — he  did  not  wonder  at  this — and  he  ex- 
plained the  reasons.  An  experiment  was  proposed — to 
supersede  the  former  teacher  and  give  Mr.  Campbell 
his  position,  at  half  his  salary ;  this  the  spirited  young 
fellow  refused. 

"  The  doctor  urged  that  the  public  would  not  allow  him  to  pay  a 
blind  man  as  much  as  a  sighted  man.  'But,'  I  said,  'you  employ 
me  because  you  thiuk  I  should  do  better  than  a  sighted  man.  I 
will  not  be  underpaid ;  but,  if  you  like,  I  will  teach  one  term  for 
nothing;'  which,  having  got  some  private  pupils,  I  was  now  able 
to  do.  So  it  was  settled  that  the  experiment  should  be  tried." 


LIGHT   IN    DARKNESS.  175 

It  succeeded  perfectly.  Mr.  Campbell  was  formally 
established  on  his  own  terms.  These  included  two  rev- 
olutionary movements  —  the  abolition  of  all  the  old, 
worn-out  pianos,  as  it  was  impossible  "  to  make  bricks 
without  straw ;"  and  permission  to  choose  twenty  boys 
and  girls  to  be  educated,  physically  and  intellectually,  as 
well  as  musically,  according  to  his  wishes. 

"  The  6rst  one  sent  up  to  me  was  a  musical  prodigy.  But  he  did 
not  know  the  multiplication-table,  and,  as  he  had  been  at  school 
several  years,  I  declined  him.  Many  others  came  with  the  same  re- 
sult. At  last  I  said,  '  Send  me  the  best  boy  at  mathematics ;'  and 
Thomas  Roche  came  and  gave  me  without  hesitation  a  beautiful 
demonstration  of  the  square  of  the  hypothenuse.  '  Thomas,'  said  I, 
'you  will  do;  would  you  like  to  study  music?' — 'Yes,  sir,  but  I 
have  no  ear ;  I  have  been  turned  out  of  the  musical  department.' — 
'  Never  mind  !'  and  I  told  him  my  own  story.  He  became  my  pu- 
pil ;  and  ten  years  after,  at  his  death,  this  same  Thomas  Roche  left 
a  good  sum  of  money,  his  own  earnings  by  teaching  music,  to  the 
Perkins  Institution.  My  nineteen  others  were  scarcely  less  suc- 
cessful." 

Certainly,  could  any  mortal  command  success,  this 
imperious  fighter  against  hard  fortune  seems  to  have 
done  it.  Possibly  he  comes  from  the  old  Campbell 
race,  the  Highland  chieftains  whose  blood  is  so  blue 
that  when  their  heir  lately  married  a  queen's  daughter 
there  were  those  who  considered  that  the  royal  family 
was  the  one  honored  by  the  alliance !  But  of  his  birth 
I  can  say  nothing;  for  this  self-dependent,  self-made 


176  LIGHT    IN   BARENESS. 

man  seems  entirely  to  ignore  his  grandfathers  and  great- 
grandfathers. It  is  a  not  ignoble  pride  to  be  proud  of 
one's  ancestors ;  but  it  is  a  nobler  pride  to  make  our  de- 
scendants proud  of  us. 

Mr.  Campbell  was  now  fairly  established  at  Boston. 

"My  greatest  difficulty  there,"  he  writes,  "as  it  has  been  in  all 
my  experience,  was  the  low  physical  condition  of  the  blind.  In 
their  education  every  effort  should  be  made  to  supply  this  deficien- 
cy, else  their  ambition  and  confidence  will  always  be  much  below  . 
that  of  the  average  student.  It  is  useless  to  say  to  the  blind, '  Go !' 
—the  word  must  be, 'Cornel'  Therefore  I  used  to  take  my  boys 
daily  to  swim  in  the  open  sea;  also  we  went  long  rowing  expedi- 
tions. Once  we  chartered  a  schooner,  and  went  far  out  to  sea,  fish- 
ing. I  led  a  party  of  them  up  Mount  Mansfield,  and  another  up 
Mount  Washington.  A  Southerner  myself,  I  had  never  been  on  the 
ice.  In  my  first  winter  at  Boston  I  learned  to  skate,  and  insisted 
on  my  boys  learning  too.  But  in  the  winter  of  1861  my  lungs  be- 
came affected.  Dr.  Howe  urged  a  sea-voyage  to  South  America, 
telling  me  that  otherwise  I  should  not  live  a  year.  This  news  had 
the  contrary  effect  from  what  my  advisers  anticipated.  If  my  life 
was  to  be  short,  I  felt  I  must  do  as  much  in  it  as  possible.  I  re- 
sumed, and  even  increased,  my  out-door  sports.  I  took  the  precau- 
tion of  having  an  open  fire,  avoiding  the  hot  air  of  the  Boston 
stoves,  and  that  was  all.  Praise  be  to  God !  instead  of  a  year  of 
life,  he  has  given  me  twenty — and  may  give  me  twenty  more,  to 
work  in  behalf  of  the  blind." 

In  this  spirit,  no  wonder  the  man  worked,  and  worked 
well.     His  eleven  years'  connection  with  the  Perkins 


LIGHT   IN   DAKKNES&.  177 

Institution  was  an  entire  success.  His  energy  and  ac- 
tivity never  failed.  But  the  history  and  working  of  this 
noted  institution  are  well  known  in  America,  and  to 
repeat  the  details  in  England  is  unnecessary. 

During  the  winter  of  1868-9,  Mr.  Campbell's  health 
again  broke  down.  Added  to  his  incessant  labors  were 
domestic  trials  of  the  severest  kind.  His  wife  had  be- 
come a  confirmed  invalid.  Often  he  had  to  work  all 
day,  come  home  and  sit  up  all  night,  fulfilling  the  duties 
of  sick-nurse.  But  of  these  sorrows  he  seldom  speaks, 
nor  is  there  any  need  to  speak.  Dr.  Howe  and  the  trus- 
tees urged  him  to  go  to  Europe  for  a  year,  promising 
to  continue  his  salary  the  while.  The  Harvard  Musi- 
cal Association  of  Boston  gave  a  grand  concert,  and 
presented  him  with  the  proceeds.  Every  one  seemed 
glad  to  help  in  his  need  a  man  who  had  helped  himself, 
and  many  others,  to  the  utmost  of  his  power. 

So  in  August,  1869,  Mr.  Campbell,  with  his  wife  and 
son,  sailed  from  New  York  to  Liverpool.  Though  only 
in  that  town  a  few  hours,  he  contrived  to  visit  the  In- 
stitution for  the  Blind  there  ;  and  noticed,  with  perhaps 
pardonable  pride,  that  the  amount  of  intelligence  among 
the  pupils  seemed  less  than  in  America.  His  travels, 
ostensibly  for  health,  were  continually  used  for  pur- 
poses of  study — every  kind  of  study  that  could  help  on 
the  great  work  of  his  life,  the  amelioration  of  the  condi- 
tion of  the  blind. 

8* 


178  LIGHT   IN    DARKNESS. 

"I  arrived  at  Leipzig  about  the  middle  of  October,  where,  by  the 
kindness  of  Professor  Mosclieles  and  others,  I  was  allowed  the  free- 
dom of  the  Conservatoire,  and  could  spend  as  much  time  as  I  chose 
in  the  classes  of  any  or  all  of  the  professors.  After  six  months  I 
went  on  to  Berlin,  and  became  a  private  pupil  of  Professor  Theo- 
dor  Kullak,  whose  Conservatoire,  and  that  of  Karl  Tausig,  I  also 
attended.  My  object  was  to  study  thoroughly  the  method  of  teach- 
ing pursued  in  these  various  establishments." 

To  teach  music  being,  as  Mr.  Campbell  explained 
when  he  chose  his  class  of  twenty  at  the  Perkins  Insti- 
tution, a  very  different  thing,  and  requiring  different 
qualifications,  from  being  a  musical  genius,  composer, 
or  performer,  for  this  part  of  the  profession  the  exceed- 
jng  thoroughness  necessary  in  the  education  of  the  blind, 
when  properly  educated,  is  a  great  advantage.  At  first 
sight,  the  idea  that  a  capacity  for  understanding  the 
square  of  the  hypothenuse  should  help  a  man  in  teach- 
ing music  seems  ridiculous.  But  real  musicians,  who 
know  what  an  exact  science  their  beloved  art  is,  or 
ought  to  be  made,  will  think  differently.  And  it  is 
noticeable  in  how  many  persons,  as  in  Mr.  Campbell, 
the  faculty  for  mathematics  and  music,  as  well  as  the 
love  of  both,  is  combined.  Many  admirable  organists, 
and  one  composer,  Dr.  G.  A.  Macfarren,  have  proved 
that  it  is  possible  for  the  blind  to  master  the  utmost 
difficulties  of  musical  science.  But  they  must  do  it  by 
an  amount  of  patience,  perseverance,  and  sound  instruc- 


LIGHT   IN    DARKNESS.  179 

tion,  both  on  their  own  side  and  their  teachers',  double 
what  is  required  from  sighted  persons. 

Also  their  education  is  much  more  expensive.  Raised 
maps,  raised  books — everything  that  must  necessarily  be 
acquired  by  the  sense  of  touch  only — cost  money,  and  a 
great  deal  of  money.  Mr.  Campbell  travelled  from  city 
to  city,  informing  himself  on  all  these  points ;  studying 
all  the  various  systems,  so  as  to  be  able,  when  he  re- 
turned, to  carry  on  his  work  not  only  on  satisfactory 
but  economical  principles.  Having  learned  everywhere 
as  much  as  he  possibly  could,  and  regained  a  fair  amount 
of  health  with  which  to  put  his  experience  to  use,  he 
turned  his  thoughts  homewards,  and  began,  as  he  sup- 
posed, his  journey  back  to  America ;  reaching  London 
on  the  21st  January,  1871,  exactly  ten  years  from  this 
day  on  which  I  am  writing.  Looking  back,  it  seems  as 
marvellous  a  ten  years'  work  as  any  man  ever  accom- 
plished. It  has  been — not  the  work  which  he  had  pro- 
posed to  do.  but  another  work  in  another  land.  Thus 
it  came  about,  by  that  which  some  call  chance  and  oth- 
ers Providence : 

"  On  the  first  day  of  our  arrival  in  London,  a  gentleman  at  the 
hotel  happened  to  say  he  was  going  to  a  blind  tea-meeting.  I 
accompanied  him.  Till  then  I  never  felt  the  overpowering  sadness 
of  blindness  —  helpless,  not  helpful,  blindness.  There  must  have 
been  between  three  and  four  hundred  persons  present,  led  by  their 
wives,  their  children,  hired  guides,  or  dogs.  The  food  was  good  ; 


180  LIGHT   IN    DARKNESS. 

the  kindness  great.  But  the  whole  thing  seemed  unreal.  I  heard 
the  blind  recipients  express  their  gratitude  for  their  blessings,  but 
there  seemed  an  uudercurreut  of  feeling  which,  could  it  have  been 
put  into  words,  would  have  implied, '  Why  am  I  thus  ?'  On  talking 
with  many  of  them,  I  satisfied  myself  that,  by  proper  training,  these 
miserable  objects  of  charity  might  have  been  made  self-sustaining, 
useful  members  of  society.  I  went  home  and  spent  a  sleepless 
night.  Next  morning  I  told  my  wife  that  we  should  not  sail  as 
planned,  and  arranged  with  the  Iiiraau  Line  to  extend  our  tickets." 

His  next  step  was  to  deliver  one  of  his  two  letters  of 
introduction.  This  was  to  Dr.  Armitage,  well  known 
for  his  interest  in  the  blind,  and  his  devotion  of  life  and 
fortune  to  the  amelioration  of  their  condition.  For 
some  months  the  two  gave  their  combined  energies  to 
the  investigation  of  blind-institutions,  hoping  to  intro- 
duce new  methods  of  instruction.  Being  unsuccessful, 
they  boldly  started  an  experimental  school,  taking  for  it 
three  small  houses  in  Paxton  Terrace,  opposite  the  Low 
Level  station  of  the  Crystal  Palace — the  same  where  I 
first  found  Mr.  Campbell  and  his  little  flock. 

"  This  was  in  February,  1872.  On  March  1st  we  received  two 
pupils,  little  boys  from  Leeds,  and  began  our  school  as  a  private 
family.  But  by  the  middle  of  May  we  had  received  so  many  that 
we  had  to  organize  regular  school- work,  under  two  lady  teachers, 
Miss  Green  and  Miss  Faulkner,  and  a  piano-tuner,  Mr.  J.  W.  Smith. 
Besides  all  iny  other  work,  I  managed  to  give  the  musical  instruc- 
tion myself." 

Single-handed,  as  indeed  his  whole  life  has  been,  Mr. 


LIGHT    IN    DARKNESS.  181 

Campbell  carried  out  his  system,  and  with  such  marvel- 
TouTsuccess  that  at  the  two  years'  end  he  felt  justified 
in  trying  for  a  much  larger  house,  on  the  top  of  the 
hill.  In  the  midst  of  these  plans,  his  wife's  long  suffer- 
ings were  ended.  She  died  in  August,  1873,  leaving 
him  a  son,  now  a  fine  young  fellow,  who  from  child- 
hood has  been  to  his  father  everything  that  the  poor 
mother  could  not  be.  But  private  sorrows  should  never 
hinder  public  work,  and  did  not. 

"  I  was  resolved,"  says  Mr.  Campbell,  "  that,  before  tbetwo  years 
experiment  was  ended,  broad  foundations  should  be  laid  for  perma- 
nent usefulness.  The  Duke  (then  Marquis)  of  Westminster  came 
down  to  me  one  afternoon  to  look  over  the  Mount  and  hear  all  rea- 
sons for  and  against  it.  When  he  left  he  offered  to  give  £1000 
towards  the  purchase  of  it." 

From  such  a  generous  beginning  other  help  followed, 
and  by  October  in  the  same  year  Mr.  Campbell  had  mi- 
grated, with  all  his  pupils,  to  the  house  which  formed 
the  nucleus  of  what  is  now  the  Eoyal  Normal  College 
for  the  Blind,  Westow  Street,  Upper  Norwood. 

Its  history  is  public  property,  and  its  advantages  can 
be  investigated  by  all  who  choose  to  visit  it.  A  most 
pleasant,  comfortable,  and  picturesque  building ;  with 
excellent  class-rooms,  a  fine  music-hall,  a  garden,  a  play- 
ground, and  gymnasium  ;  a  lake,  used  for  swimming  in 
summer  and  skating  in  winter;  workshops  of  several 
kinds,  especially  for  the  tuning  and  even  making  of 


182  LIGHT   IN    DARKNESS. 

pianos — all  this  has  grown  out  of  the  small  school  in 
Paxton  Terrace,  and  through  the  indomitable  perse- 
verance, energy,  and  "  pluck "  of  one  man,  the  little 
Tennessee  lad  who  was  mourned  over  as  "  poor,  blind 
Joseph." 

Lastly — and  I  am  glad  to  add  this,  since,  however  he- 
roic and  successful  a  man's  work  in  the  world  may  be, 
a  lonely  man,  or  a  man  who  "carries  a  stone  in  his 
heart,"  must  always  be  a  rather  sad  picture — within  the 
grounds  of  the  college  is  a  separate  little  house,  where 
a  very  different  picture  may  be  seen.  In  the  summer 
of  1874,  Mr.  Campbell,  revisiting  his  native  land,  again 
met  Miss  Faulkner,  an  American  young  lady  who  had 
been  one  of  the  two  teachers  at  the  beginning  of  the 
Paxton  Terrace  School,  having  joined  in  the  work  with 
all  her  heart,  and  only  left  it  when  recalled  home  by 
the  illness  of  her  father.  They  once  more  took  counsel 
together  upon  the  question  which  had  been  the  great 
interest  of  both  their  lives,  went  over  various  blind-in- 
stitutions, and  compared  experiences.  After  a  pleasant 
sojourn,  during  which  he  revisited  many  familiar  places, 
including  his  old  home,  from  which  he  had  been  absent 
so  many  years,  Mr.  Campbell  returned  to  England,  and 
recommenced  his  work.  But  he  soon  found,  as  he  sim- 
ply and  touchingly  puts  it,  "  that  he  could  not  work 
alone."  He  once  more  sailed  to  America,  and  brought 
back  Miss  Faulkner  as  his  wife. 


LIGHT   IN   DARKNESS,  183 

Since  then  all  has  prospered  with  hirn  and  his  work, 
in  which  he  and  his  helpmate  go  hand-in-hand.  She 
still  teaches  as  well  as  he,  and,  self-reliant  as  he  is,  her 
bright,  active,  intelligent  aid,  as  well  as  that  of  his  eld- 
est son  by  his  first  marriage,  is  not  unwelcome  to  this 
happy  and  independent  blind  man,  who  goes  about 
among  his  sighted  family  as  capable  as  any  of  them  all. 
Capable  not  only  of  work,  but  enjoyment,  for  with  his 
son,  his  constant  companion,  he  has  done  no  end  of 
travelling,  in  Switzerland  especially.  He  has  even 
climbed  Mont  Blanc,  being  the  first  blind  man  who 
ever  accomplished  that  feat.  How  far  it  was  a  wise  or 
desirable  feat,  opinions  differ ;  but  it  served  the  one 
great  purpose  of  his  life,  the  "light  in  darkness"  which 
he  has  carried  everywhere  about  with  him,  passing  it  on 
like  a  beacon-fire  from  hill  to  hill,  with  the  watchword, 
not  so  much  "  Help  us !"  as  "  Help  us  to  help  ourselves." 

The  extent  to  which  he  has  taught  his  pupils  to  help 
themselves  is  incredible  except  to  those  who  witness  it. 
Starting  on  the  principle  that  the  blind  should  be  en- 
couraged from  the  very  first  to  do  as  much  as  they  can 
for  themselves,  to  consider  themselves  not  as  aliens  from 
ordinary  life  and  education,  but  able  to  acquire— though, 
of  course,  with  greater  difficulty — almost  everything 
that  other  children  can  acquire,  to  work  as  they  work, 
and  play  as  they  play,  he  has  succeeded  in  making  his 
school  not  merely  a  blind-school,  where  every  thing  must 


184:  LIGHT    IN   DAKKNESS. 

be  regarded  with  pitying  reservations,  but  one  where 
the  standard  of  education  can  compete  with  that  of  any 
similar  establishment  in  the  country. 

In  music  especially.  I  lately  sat  and  listened  to  a 
lesson  he  gave  his  choir,  a  five-part  chorus  out  of  "  The 
Woman  of  Samaria,"  which  they  tried  for  the  first  time. 
He  read  it  to  them  bar  by  bar ;  they  wrote  it  down  by 
the  Braille  system  of  notation,  and  sang  it  "  at  sight," 
as  we  say — each  separate  part,  and  then  the  whole,  with 
scarcely  an  error.  Afterwards,  just  for  my  pleasure 
and  their  own,  he  made  them  sing  another  chorus  out 
of  the  same  work,  newly  learned,  which  they  gave  with 
a  purity  of  intonation  and  accuracy  of  musical  reading 
quite  remarkable.  Also,  with  such  an  evident  pleasure 
in  this,  the  greatest  gift  that  blind  people  can  use,  for 
themselves  and  the  world — the  power  of  making  music. 
Watching  those  rows  of  sightless  faces  of  all  ages,  and 
listening  to  the  exquisitely  beautiful  voices  of  some  of 
them,  the  words  they  sang,  which  happen  to  be  "In 
thy  light  shall  we  see  light,"  became  less  a  despair  than 
a  hope,  even  in  this  world. 

Hope  and  courage  are,  indeed,  the  ruling  elements  in 
the  Normal  College.  It  is  not  a  charity :  everybody 
pays,  or  is  paid  for,  a  fair  and  fixed  sum,  like  any  ordi- 
nary boarding-school.  Nevertheless,  the  history  of  the 
institution  contains  many  a  sealed  page,  which  its  prin- 
cipal will  not  allow  me  to  open  :  stories  of  forlorn  chil- 


LIGHT   IN   DARKNESS.  ,  185 

dren  rescued  —  some  even  from  the  workhouse — and 
educated  gratis  into  useful  independence;  of  young 
women  made  capable  of  maintaining  not  only  them- 
selves, but  their  parents ;  of  young  men  helped  to  emi- 
grate, and  carrying  out  a  happy  and  successful  life  in 
the  colonies.  As  vocalists,  music-teachers,  and  piano- 
tuners,  the  pupils  year  by  year  go  out  into  the  world, 
and  earn  their  honest,  independent  bread.  "  In  fact," 
said  Mr.  Campbell  to  me,  "  in  all  these  ten  years  we 
have  only  had  four  failures :  two  because  they  came  to 
us  too  old  to  learn,  and  two  because  they" — with  a  hes- 
itating smile — "  began  going  to  the  public-house." 

This  is  one  of  Mr.  Campbell's  "crotchets,"  as  one 
half  the  world  might  consider  it,  but  the  other  half 
know  that  it  is  one  of  the  strongest  guarantees  for  the 
success  of  his  work.  He  allows  no  drink  of  any  sort  to 
enter  the  college.  Tobacco  also  is  forbidden.  There- 
fore, all  smokers  and  wine-bibbers  are  kept  safely  out  of 
that  peaceful  domain. 

Besides  his  American  temperance,  he  carries  out  the 
principle  of  American  democracy.  No  class -distinc- 
tions are  allowed.  All  ranks  work  together;  play  to- 
gether— subject  to  the  same  regulations.  But,  to  obvi- 
ate many  difficulties  that  might  arise  from  this  plan, 
he  never  takes  any  pupil  without  a  three  months'  trial, 
and  remorselessly  refuses  any  "  black  sheep,"  who  mor- 
ally or  socially  might  corrupt  the  rest. 


186  LIGHT    IN    DARKNESS. 

The  system  pursued  in  his  large,  busy,  happy  family 
— still  a  family — I  shall  not  attempt  to  enter  into.  It 
is  explained  in  reports,  and  visitors  can  go  and  see  its 
working  for  themselves.  "Busy,"  "happy"  —  those 
two  essential  necessities — he  tries  to  make  them  all. 
"  If  we  work,"  one  of  his  pupils  said  to  me,  "  we  are 
all  right  with  Mr.  Campbell.  But  if  we  don't  work" 
— an  ominous  pause.  Yes,  I  could  imagine  the  rest. 
Unlucky  position  !  to  be  drone  in  that  hive. 

It  reminds  one  of  a  hive,  with  its  "  murmur  of  innu- 
merable bees."  The  piano-tuning ;  the  practising,  vo- 
cal and  instrumental,  which  goes  on  incessantly ;  the 
hum  of  the  class-rooms ;  the  chattering,  shouting,  and 
laughing  of  the  play-grounds — verily,  these  blind  young 
people  are  neither  deaf  nor  dumb.  Their  frolics  last 
Christmas  were  wonderful.  There  was  a  grand  "Christ- 
mas-tree, and  afterwards  all  sighted  visitors  were  blind- 
folded— "  to  make  things  equal,"  as  Mr.  Campbell  said, 
with  a  smile. — "  And  didn't  we  have  fun  !" 

Besides  fun,  he  gives  to  his  pupils  the  blessing  of 
usefulness.  An  earnestly  religious  man,  though  with  no 
sectarian  bias,  Mr.  Campbell  opens  his  fine  music-hall 
every  Sunday  evening  after  church  service  is  over,  and 
admits  to  it  by  tickets  all  the  poor  of  the  neighbor- 
hood. Cabmen,  mechanics,  laborers,  of  whom  there  are 
so  many  connected  with  the  Crystal  Palace  close  by, 
come  regularly,  with  their  wives  and  families,  to  have 


LIGHT   IN   DARKNESS.  187 

an  hour  of  sacred  music,  ending  with  the  Lord's  Prayer 
and  a  very  short  address  on  some  sacred  subject.  Noth- 
ing prosy,  nothing  doctrinal,  yet  something  which  all 
can  listen  to,  and  a  hymn  in  which  all  are  bid  to  join — 
"singing  with  melody  in  their  hearts  to  the  Lord." 
The  good  that  this  may  do — the  numbers  who  may  be 
kept  out  of  the  public-houses  of  a  Sunday  night  by 
"going  to  hear  the  blind  folks  sing" — there  is  no  need 
to  enlarge  upon. 

Nor,  indeed,  have  I  space  to  say  any  more.  My 
"  subject "  has,  let  us  hope,  a  long  life  before  him  yet. 
A  happy  life,  with  his  wife  at  his  side,  and  his  children 
growing  up  around  him.  I  will  not  break  the  sancti- 
ties of  private  life  by  describing  his  home,  or  his  life 
therein,  except  by  one  word,  in  which  was  put  briefly 
the  substance  of  all  I  have  written  here,  and  the  pur- 
pose of  all  I  meant  to  write. 

"  Mrs.  Campbell,"  I  said  to  her  one  day,  "  your  hus- 
band is  an  exceedingly  clever  man." 

"No,"  she  answered,  "he  is  not  cleverer  than  many 
other  men.  But  the  difference  between  him  and  all 
other  people  I  ever  knew  is  this — he  makes  use  of  all 
his  opportunities" 

If  only  we  all  did  the  same ! 


AN  ISLAND  OF  THE  BLEST 


AN  ISLAND  OF  THE  BLEST. 


"  Where  falls  not  hail,  or  rain,  or  any  snow ; 
Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly :  but  it  lies 
Deep-meadowed,  happy  ;  fair  with  orchard-lawns, 
And  bowery  hollows  crowned  with  summer  sea." 

TENNYSON. 

"  YEDERE  Napoli  e  poi  morir."  And  I  truly  believe 
I  should  have  died,  had  we  stayed  many  days  longer  in 
that  most  abominable  of  cities,  which,  despite  its  lovely 
position,  seated  queen-like,  with  head  on  the  hill-tops 
and  feet  in  the  blue  Mediterranean,  and  blessed  with  a 
climate  the  most  heavenly  in  Europe,  will  always  rest 
upon  my  mind  as  a  place  to  be  fled  from,  almost  as  Lot 
fled  from  the  Cities  of  the  Plain. 

Imagine  the  worst  population  of  the  worst  dens  in 
Paris,  London,  Glasgow,  Edinburgh,  degraded  to  the 
lowest  depth  that  misery  and  vice,  acting  and  reacting 
upon  one  another,  can  degrade.  A  race  ugly,  stunted, 
diseased,  deformed,  not  pent  up  within  its  own  quar- 
ters, but  sweeping  like  a  flood  through  all  the  streets — 
streets  where  everybody  drives ;  no  decent  person  ever 


192  AN   ISLAND   OF   THE   BLEST. 

attempts  to  walk :  picture  this,  and  you  have  a  faint 
conception  of  the  miserable,  beautiful,  diabolical  city 
of  which  a  friend  who  had  long  known  it  said  to  me, 
sorrowfully,  the  other  day,  "  that  the  best  wish  he  could 
have  for  Naples  was  to  become  a  second  Pompeii  in  a 
new  eruption  of  Vesuvius." 

Yet  there  she  sits,  as  sat  Neapolis  of  old,  in  view  of 
the  same  magnificent  bay,  the  same  gracefully  curved 
mountain,  with  its  slender  spiral  of  white  smoke  curl- 
ing innocently  into  the  intense  blue  sky ;  and  the  easy- 
minded  folk  who  travel  en  prince  and  see  all  things  in 
Naples,  mundane  or  moral,  from  the  point  of  view  of 
the  Hotel  Bristol,  go  away  saying  that  it  is  the  most 
charming  place  in  the  world.  But  to  any  one  who  pos- 
sesses what  has  been  called  "  the  enthusiasm  of  human- 
ity," who  has  a  keen  sense  of  the  humanness  of  travel 
— of  the  pleasure  of  observing,  meditating  upon,  and 
taking  an  interest  in  one's  fellow-creatures,  noting  the 
points  of  difference  as  well  as  of  unity,  and  coming  to 
the  tender  conclusion  that  they  are  our  fellow-creatures 
after  all — to  such  a  -one  this  lovely  city  is  one  of  the 
saddest  cities  under  God's  sun. 

We  fled  from  it,  even  though  it  was  into  a  mist  al- 
most as  dense  as  that  into  which  historians  tell  us  the 
wretched  Pompeians  fled  when  the  burning  mountain 
drove  them  into  the  sea,  and  the  heaving  sea  threw 
them  back  upon  the  land.  On  the  quay  —  alas!  I 


AN   ISLAND   OF   THE   BLEST.  193 

shall  never  hear  that  exquisite  song  "Santa  Lucia" 
without  catching  in  memory  a  whiff  of  the  abominable 
odor  of  the  Chiaja — on  the  quay  one  could  scarcely  see 
ten  yards  ahead.  The  Bay  of  Naples,  with  all  its  mag- 
nificent views,  had  totally  disappeared.  The  little 
steamer  bound  for  Capri  was  half  invisible.  Beyond 
it  stretched  an  impenetrable,  not  blackness,  but  white- 
ness, shrouding  the  entire  sea-world,  and  extending  a 
good  way  up  into  the  clouds.  Such  a  fog,  the  Neapoli- 
tans told  us,  had  not  been  seen  here  for  more  than 
twenty  years. 

Still,  since  the  Capri  boat  was  starting,  a  friend  ad- 
vised us  to  risk  everything,  and  start  with  her.  For, 
though  she  was  advertised  to  sail  daily,  she  very  sel- 
dom did.  The  slightest  hindrance — such  as  a  not  suf- 
ficient complement  of  passengers,  or  an  unpropitious 
wind,  which  would  hinder  the  said  passengers  from  en- 
tering the  Blue  Grotto,  or  even  a  slight  breeze,  so  as  to 
make  their  voyage  unpleasant — is  always  enough  to  de- 
tain these  fair-weather  sailors.  What  would  they  think 
of  our  sailors  and  our  steamboats,  which  go  ploughing 
in  any  weather  through  our  stormy  northern  seas? 

This  sea  was  calm,  at  any  rate;  a  perfect  duck-pond. 
We  traversed  it  blindly,  not  seeing  more  than  a  few 
yards  before  us,  yet  with  the  aggravating  knowledge 
that  on  every  side  was  the  wonderful  scenery  of  that 
wonderful  bay.  We  had  to  imagine  everything,  for 
9 


194  AN   ISLAND   OF   THE   BLEST. 

nothing  could  we  behold.  However,  we  had  our  dis- 
tractions, in  the  shape  of  some  more  than  ordinarily 
queer  tourists,  and  a  wandering  vocalist  who  sang 
"Santa  Lucia"  and  various  other  Neapolitan  ballads 
in  a  sweet  tenor  voice,  and  with  skill  and  expression 
that  would  have  done  credit  to  many  finished  singers. 
Truly,  Italians  seem  born  to  sing,  like  their  own  night- 
ingales. But  they  cannot  work  as  we  can.  The  dolce 
far  niente  penetrates  their  inmost  souls;  even  if  they 
do  contrive  to  do  something,  it  is  done  slowly,  lazily, 
desultorily.  An  English  or  Scotch  steamboat  would 
have  made  the  voyage  in  an  hour.  We  started,  or  were 
supposed  to  start,  at  half-past  eight,  yet  it  was  nearly 
noon  and  we  had  not  reached  our  "Island  of  the  Blest," 
the  name  enthusiastic  travellers  give  to  Capri. 

But  had  I  not  better  say  a  word  about  that  island  ? 
for  it  is  astonishing  how  little  many  people  know  of  it 
till  they  actually  go  there. 

Capri  is  an  enormous  rock,  probably  of  volcanic  ori- 
gin, dropped  in  the  middle  of  the  Bay  of  Naples.  Be- 
tween it  and  the  nearest  point  of  the  mainland,  Sorren- 
to, is  a  bocca,  or  mouth,  narrow  enough  to  row  across — 
that  is,  in  calm  weather.  But  when  the  sea  is  rough — 
and  the  smiling  Mediterranean  is  subject  to  sudden  and 
fearful  storms — the  little  island  is  as  completely  shut 
off  from  communication  with  its  continent  as  was  the 
fabled  Atlantis,  the  real  "  Island  of  the  Blest."  You 


AN   ISLAND   OF   THE   BLUEST.  195 

can  go  and  return  in  a  single  day — as  I  said,  the  Nea- 
politan navigators  always  choose  the  finest  of  fine  days, 
and  will  not  sail  on  any  other ;  but  if  you  stay  longer 
than  a  day,  you  may  chance  to  stay  a  good  deal  longer 
still.  Close  as  it  looks  to  Naples,  and  easy  as  the  pas- 
sage seems,  it  is  a  difficult  place  to  get  to,  and  a  still 
more  difficult  place  to  get  away  from — if  anybody  ever 
could  wish  to  get  away  from  Capri ! 

Tiberius  did  not.  Its  most  prominent  peak,  Tim- 
berio  (a  corruption  of  his  name)  is  still  covered  with 
the  remains  of  the  largest  of  the  twelve  villas  which  he 
is  said  to  have  built  here.  And  as,  the  mist  melting 
away,  we  see  the  island  rising  like  a  flower  out  of  the 
smooth  expanse  of  sea.  we  wonder  not  that  the  luxu- 
rious old  emperor  loved  it  so  in  his  latter  days,  or  that 
his  predecessor,  Augustus,  who  exchanged  Ischia  for  it, 
and  only  enjoyed  it  two  years,  was  equally  devoted  to 
this  insular  Paradise.  There  surely  peace  might  be 
found,  if  it  could  ever  be  found  in  this  world,  by  either 
bad  men  or  good  men.  Which  these  old  Romans  were, 
whether  better  or  worse  than  their  descendants,  who 
can  decide?  The  stories  told  us  of  King  Bomba  at 
Naples  parallel  the  traditions  left  by  Tiberius  in  Capri. 

Both  are  alike  indifferent  to  us  now,  as  we  sit  on 
deck,  penetrated  through  and  through  by  the  brightest 
of  sunshine,  though  it  is  only  the  first  week  of  March, 
and  watch  the  boat  stop,  and  a  few  enterprising  tourists 


196  AN   ISLAND   OF   THE   BLEST. 

descend  to  the  Blue  Grotto,  called  by  some  "  one  of  the 
wonders  of  the  world." 

On  seeing  it  some  days  afterwards,  we  rather  doubted 
that  fact.  It  is  merely  a  huge  vaulted  chamber,  floored 
with  heaving  sea-water  of  an  intense  blue,  and  lit  by 
daylight  which  enters  through  a  low  arch,  under  which 
you  can  only  pass  by  lying  down  flat  in  your  boat,  when 
the  sea  is  calm.  A  true  mermaid's  cave,  very  curious 
and  beautiful,  if  it  could  be  seen  in  solitude ;  but  when 
boat-load  after  boat-load  of  vociferous  tourists  enters, 
filling  it  with  a  confused  jabber  of  French,  German, 
English,  and  American  (there  is  a  difference),  mingled 
with  the  shrill  Italian  of  the  small  boy,  who  persists  in 
wanting  to  dive  that  you  may  see  the  color  of  the  blue 
water  upon  flesh — then  all  the  imaginary  mermaids  flee 
away,  and  the  Blue  Grotto  becomes  a  very  ordinary 
"  wonder  of  the  world  "  indeed. 

There  is  a  green  grotto  on  the  other  side  of  the  island 
— indeed,  there  are  grottos  and  caves  without  number 
all  round  it,  and,  ag  we  now  clearly  see,  its  perpendicu- 
lar cliffs  rise  sheer  out  of  the  sea  to  the  height  of  sev- 
eral hundred  feet.  Nowhere,  save  in  the  northwest 
coast  of  Ireland — it  is  strange  how  far  we  travel,  leav- 
ing unseen  grander  beauty  close  at  home  —  nowhere 
else  have  I  ever  beheld  such  rocks.  Except  for  its  two 
landing-places,  the  Marina  Grande  and  the  Piccola  Ma- 
rina, the  lovely  island  stands  absolutely  inaccessible, 


AN   ISLAND   OF   THE   BLEST.  197 

protected  by  natural  fortresses  against  the  whole  out- 
side world. 

The  Capri  "  world  "  into  which  we  are  now  coming 
seems  wholly  composed  of  women  and  donkeys.  The 
tiny  quay  is  thronged  by  them,  shouting,  screaming, 
gesticulating — I  mean  the  women — their  four-footed 
companions  standing  meekly  beside.  They  are  of  all 
ages,  from  the  wrinkled  crone,  so  familiar  a  sight  in 
Italy — yellow,  skinny,  toothless,  yet  with  much  regular- 
ity of  features,  and  a  ghostly  gleam  of  long-faded  beauty 
glittering  in  her  dark  eyes — down  to  the  young  girl  of 
thirteen,  just  budding  into  what  her  grandmother  once 
was. 

Capri  women  are  renowned  for  their  good  looks,  and 
truly.  It  is  said  that  Tiberius's  thousand  slaves,  chosen 
mostly  for  their  beauty,  have  left  behind  in  the  island 
distinct  types  thereof — Greek,  Koman,  and  even  Egyp- 
tian. I  saw  more  than  one  face  which  might  have 
made  a  study  for  a  Cleopatra  or  a  sphinx;  and  the 
coloring,  pure  warm  brown,  almost  olive,  with  the 
wholesome  blood  coursing  under  it,  was  something 
marvellous.  All  beauty  is  delightful;  but  human 
beauty,  and  of  a  kind  so  rare,  is  the  best  of  all.  We 
forgot  everything  in  the  mere  pleasure  of  gazing,  till 
reminded  that  we  had  still  a  mile  and  more  to  reach 
our  hotel,  and  there  were  no  carriages,  no  roads — noth- 
ing but  a  steep  path,  and  one's  own  two  feet,  or  the 


198  AN   ISLAND   OF   THE   BLEST. 

four  feet  of  some  equally  patient  but  much  stronger 
animal. 

But  the  journey  has  to  be  done,  and  so  we  do  it;  at 
first  walking,  then  thankfully  condescending  —  or  as- 
cending— to  the  back  of  a  donkey,  which,  led  by  an  old 
woman  and  driven  from  behind  by  a  small  boy,  suc- 
ceeds in  mounting  what  looked  at  first  like  climbing 
the  side  of  a  house.  Soon  a  long  procession  follows, 
chiefly  composed  of  women,  each  carrying  on  her  head 
a  passenger's  luggage  —  portmanteau,  bag,  or  box  — 
sometimes  of  size  and  weight  quite  startling*  But 
there  is,  apparently,  no  other  form  of  porterage,  and 
these  girls,  accustomed  to  it  from  earliest  youth,  seern 
to  hesitate  at  nothing.  However,  their  occupation  has 
stunted  their  growth  and  spoiled  their  figures.  Beauti- 
ful as  their  faces  are,  we  could  not  find  one  tall  or  grace- 
ful woman  among  them. 

Yet  they  seem  so  happy,  so  merry ;  laughing  and 
chattering  in  that  absolutely  unintelligible  Caprese,  in- 
termixed with  a  few  words  of  Italian  or  French  for  the 
benefit  of  the  forestieri.  By  the  time  we  arrive  at 
what  seems  the  hill-top  —  a  small  town,  with  a  tiny 
piazza,  and  two  or  three  narrow  passages,  politely  called 
streets,  which  constitute  the  great  metropolis  of  Capri — 
we  feel  quite  friendly  with  them  all. 

We  have  our  choice  between  two  hotels — Pagano, 
German  and  artistic ;  and  Quisisana,  mostly  chosen  by 


AN   ISLAND   OF   THE   BLEST.  199 

families,  especially  those  who  come  to  winter  here. 
We  prefer  the  latter,  where  we  shortly  find  ourselves 
"at  home."  Strange,  how  one  gets  to  use  the  word, 
even  for  a  hotel  which  has  anything  of  comfort  in  it. 

This  one  had.  We  determined  not  to  die,  but  to 
live,  only  too  glad  we  had  come  alive  out  of  Naples. 
From  the  window  of  our  bright  and  pleasant  room  we 
could  look  upon  such  a  landscape — and  seascape !  Old 
Tiberius,  with  his  jaded  eyes  and  sick  heart — if  he  ever 
had  a  heart — must  have  been  refreshed  by  it. 

But  why  attempt  to  describe  an  Island  of  the  Blest, 
which  is  so  easy  to  behold — being  only  five  days'  jour- 
ney from  this  dear  old  foggy,  rainy,  chilly  island  of 
ours?  Yet  what  a  change!  From  sunless  skies  and 
leafless  trees  to  a  .climate  warm,  clear,  and  bright — the 
blue  heavens  above  and  the  blue  sea  below  rivalling 
each  other  in  their  intensity  of  color.  Vegetation,  new 
and  strange,  is  already  waking  up  into  spring  beauty. 
There  are  whole  gardens  of  peach-blossom  decking  the 
southern  slopes,  and  all  up  the  hillside,  to  the  little 
chapel  which  crowns  the  height  they  call  Timberio,  rise 
terrace  after  terrace  of  gray-green  olives.  Below,  in  the 
hotel  garden,  are  great  acanthus  plants  and  newly  bud- 
ded vines,  ready  to  cover  the  trellised  walls,. which  in 
summer  will  be  so  cool  and  lovely.  And,  they  say,  the 
wild  flowers  are  everywhere  abundant,  and  as  beautiful 
as  those  of  Switzerland. 


200  AN   ISLAND   OF   THE   BLEST. 

It  is  I 'embarras  de  richesses ;  but  finally  we  decide, 
like  Ulysses,  to  follow  the  sunset,  which  hides  itself  be- 
hind Anacapri,  on  the  other  side  of  the  island.  So,  af- 
ter an  hour's  rest,  off  we  start  again. 

This  village  of  Anacapri  is  a  curious  place.  Though 
only  a  few  miles  distant  from  the  landing-place  and 
town  of  Capri,  there  was  till  lately  no  road,  and  almost 
no  communication,  between  the  two.  It  is  said  also 
there  were  almost  no  intermarriages — the  Anacapri  folk 
being  a  distinct  and  much  rougher  race,  from  whom  the 
Capri  fishers  and  Capri  girls  shrank  even  as  they  now 
shrink  from  the  Neapolitans.  To  go  to  Naples!  to 
marry  a  Neapolitan  ! — more  than  one  Capri  damsel  said 
to  us,  with  an  unmistakable  shudder — "  she  would  never 
think  of  such  a  thing." 

Nature  is  delightful ;  but  still  more  so  is  human  nat- 
ure. Lovely  as  the  view  was — a  succession  of  perfect 
pictures,  as  we  mounted  in  zigzags  up  the  newly  made 
road,  catching  at  each  turn  something  fresh  to  look  at 
— still,  I  own,  my  attention  was  divided  between  this 
and  the  girl  who  led  my  donkey,  with  her  bright,  frank, 
handsome  face,  her  dark  eyes,  and  her  masses  of  blue- 
black  hair,  fastened  with  a  bodkin  of  coral.  Great  was 
her  anxiety  that  la  signora  should  sit  comfortably — a 
difficult  matter,  as  the  steep  gradients  gave  the  possi- 
bility of  alternately  slipping  over  the  animal's  head  or 
his  tail ;  and  many  were  her  assurances  as  to  what  an 


AN   ISLAM)   OF   THE   BLEST.  201 

excellent  animal  he  was,  this  poor  "  Giacomo  " — I  think 
that  was  his  name — how  sure-footed,  patient,  and  intel- 
ligent. 

From  discourse  about  the  donkey,  we  passed  on  to 
more  confidential  conversation ;  though  Italian  was  evi- 
dently an  effort  to  her,  and  the  best  Tuscan  scholar 
alive  could  not  have  made  out  her  Caprese !  Still  we 
managed  to  exchange  much  information.  She  told  me 
her  name,  how  old  she  was,  and  how  she  had  been  long 
"  promessa  "  to  a  coral-fisher,  who  was  now  away  with 
the  coral-boats  off  Algiers,  but  would  come  back  in  the 
autumn  and  marry  her.  In  return,  she  questioned  me 
categorically  as  to  where  my  house  was,  how  big  a 
house  I  had,  and  how  many  children,  showing  the  same 
vivid  interest  in  my  affairs  that  she  evidently  expected 
me  to  take  in  hers. 

So  did  another  woman,  less  handsome  and  young,  but 
comely  still,  who  next  day  led  my  donkey  up  the  steep 
heights  to  Timberio,  enlivening  the  way  by  ceaseless 
conversation  about  her  husband,  who  was  also  absent  at 
the  coral-fishing,  and  her  three  children,  the  youngest 
of  whom  was  only  twenty  days  old. 

"But  we  must  work,  we  women,  while  all  our  men 
are  away.  They  go  off  in  spring,  after  the  padre  has 
blessed  the  boats,  and  they  seldom  come  back  till  au- 
tumn. Then  the  young  men  marry,  if  they  have  made 
money  enough,  and  the  husbands  settle  down  for  the 
9* 


202  AN   ISLAND   OF   THE   BLEST. 

winter.  That  woman  there,"  nodding  to  one  who  sat 
at  the  roadside,  "  has  got  no  husband  and  no  children,  so 
she  can  afford  to  be  idle." 

I  noticed  that  this  exceptional  person  looked  rather 
less  healthy  and  strong  than  her  neighbors. 

"  Oh !  she  is  getting  old,  that  is  all.  We  grow  old 
and  die,  of  course ;  but  we  are  never  ill.  Nobody  is 
ever  ill  at  Capri." 

Which  fact — and  I  afterwards  found  it  really  was 
such,  so  far  as  regarded  the  natives — is  corroborated,  or 
else  accounted  for,  by  another  fact,  that  there  is  only 
one  doctor  on  the  island. 

An  "  Island  of  the  Blest "  truly,  where  disease  finds  it 
hard  to  enter,  and  death  comes  softly  and  kindly  as  the 
fitting  close  of  life.  Still  he  does  come,  for  we  saw  the 
little  Protestant  cemetery,  « II  cimiterio  degli  animali," 
as  the  islanders  call  it.  But  if  called  "  animals  "  when 
dead,  their  heretic  visitors  are  kindly  regarded  while 
alive.  My  young  donkey-driver  seemed  to  know  and 
sympathize  with  every  invalid  among  the  little  knot  of 
English  who  had  wintered  that  year  at  Capri. 

For  Capri  is,  as  might  be  expected,  a  favorite  health 
resort.  Such  places  have  always  a  certain  melancholy 
about  them ;  a  sad  arrive  pensee  running  through  all 
their  external  beauty  and  social  pleasantness.  Even  in 
our  agreeable  table  d'hote  pathetic  little  remarks  fell 
occasionally.  "Oh  yes!  I  have  been  here  since  No- 


AN   ISLAND   OF   THE   BLEST.  203 

vember.  I  was  ordered  to  do  nothing  for  several  months ; 
but  it  is  rather  hard  work."  (Alas !  no  wonder.)  Or, 
"  I  have  been  so  disappointed  to-day  ;  I  got  a  letter 
from  my  husband  at  home,  and  the  doctor  will  not 
allow  me  to  go  back  to  London  before  June,"  etc.,  etc. 

Nevertheless,  ours  was  a  merry  table,  surrounded  by 
faces  anything  but  sickly  or  discontented ;  for  in  this 
heavenly  climate  there  is  scarcely  a  day  when  the  most 
delicate  invalid  need  fear  to  go  out.  Now  and  then 
comes  one  of  those  sudden,  brief  Mediterranean  storms, 
and  snow  is  seen,  afar  off,  on  the  hill-tops  of  the  main- 
land ;  but  at  Capri,  all  winter,  it  had  been  permanent, 
delicious  sunshine.  And  on  this  side  of  the  island 
neither  east  nor  north  winds  are  ever  known.  Shel- 
tered in  safe,  sunshiny  places,  one  may  creep  about  from 
November  to  March  as  happy  as  a  fly  on  a  south  wall. 

Those  who  have  known  what  it  is  to  look  forward  to 
winter,  feeling  that  for  months  at  a  time  the  mere 
breath  of  life  will  be  a  pain  to  draw,  and  the  slightest 
change  of  temperature  will  become  a  permanent  dread, 
can  understand  why  it  is  that  I  call  Capri  an  Island  of 
the  Blest. 

Several  of  us  forestieri,  who  started  next  day,  half  on 
donkeys,  half  on  foot,  to  mount  the  steep  ascent  of  Tim- 
berio,  would,  had  we  been  in  England  at  the  same  date, 
never  have  stirred  out  of  doors,  or  at  best  have  taken  a 
ten  minutes'  crawl  on  the  sunny  side  of  the  street,  sup- 


204  AN   ISLAND  OF   THE   BLEST. 

posing  there  was  any  sunshine  to  be  found.  But  here 
it  blazed  about  us  and  around  us,  warming  us  through 
and  through ;  even  a  little  too  warm,  as  the  younger 
ones  protested  they  were  being  "  baked  alive."  But  to 
the  elders  that  delicious  Italian  air,  dry  and  soft,  yet 
mingled  with  a  bracing,  salt-sea  freshness,  felt  as  near 
the  airs  of  Paradise  as  anything  could  be  in  this  world. 

It  cheered  us  on,  talking  and  laughing — none  of  us 
thinking  about  ourselves  at  all,  which  is  the  utmost 
blessing  for  invalids — mounting  step  by  step  the  very 
serious  ascent — or  we  should  have  thought  it  such  in 
England — through  narrow-walled  lanes,  probably  built 
of  the  debris  of  old  Tiberian  houses,  and  past  vineyards, 
where  the  trellis-work  was  set  upon  stone  columns  with 
capitals  of  rare  beauty,  which  may  have  adorned  some 
one  of  the  twelve  villas  said  to  have  existed  on  the 
island. 

In  truth,  for  people  of  artistic,  historic,  or  archseologi- 
cal  tendencies,  Capri  oilers  a  field  of  endless  interest  and 
research.  Every  inch  of  ground  hides  relics  of  its  an- 
cient inhabitants — Greek,  Roman,  and  mediaeval.  The 
Hellenic  colonists,  who  have  left  both  here  and  along 
the  mainland  so  many  fragments  of  a  most  perfect  civ- 
ilization, of  which  the  temples  of  Psestum  are  examples ; 
the  luxurious  emperors,  Augustus,  Tiberius,  Caligula ; 
the  pirates  of  the  Middle  Ages,  who  made  their  strong- 
hold here,  and  were  a  terror  to  the  whole  Mediterranean 


AN   ISLAND   OF   THE   BLEST.  205 

coast — all  these  have  planted  their  feet  on  dainty  little 
Capri  with  an  impress  never  to  be  obliterated.  The 
traditions  concerning  them  and  their  marvellous  handi- 
works are  a  ceaseless  curiosity  and  delight,  especially  to 
those  who  feel  that  the  past  has  a  certain  charm  in  it 
which  nothing  modern  ever  possesses. 

Travelling  invalids  who  rejoice  in  grand  hotels,  in 
dressing  and  dining  and  promenading,  had  certainly 
better  not  come  to  Capri.  Nice,  Mentone,  and  Monaco 
are  much  more  after  their  pattern.  But  wanderers  who 
are  sufficient  to  themselves,  who  can  settle  down  in  a 
place,  do  their  own  work,  and  find  their  own  amuse- 
ments, without  being  dependent  on  any  external  enter- 
tainment, might  spend  here  week  after  week,  and  month 
after  month,  and  always  find  something  new. 

A  whole  week  instead  of  half  a  day  might  have  been 
occupied  in  examining  this  villa  of  Tiberius.  It  must 
have  extended  all  over  the  hill,  now  terraced  with  olives, 
almost  every  terrace  being  formed  upon  what  was  once 
a  house-roof ;  doubtless  some  habitation  of  the  numer- 
ous slaves.  On  the  hill-top  dwelt  the  luxurious  master. 
Portions  of  his  domestic  chambers,  the  stables,  the  large 
reservoirs  for  water,  the  theatre,  still  remain,  easily  rec- 
ognizable by  those  acquainted  with  ancient  Eoman  ar- 
chitecture. 

How  grand  and  solid  this  must  have  been,  and  "how 
different  from  our  own,  no  one  can  travel  in  Italy  with- 


206  AN   ISLAND   OF  THE   BLEST. 

out  perceiving.  We  bnild  for  a  lease  of  ninety-nine 
years ;  but  they  built  for  ever,  both  outside  the  earth 
and  under  it.  The  mosaic  pavement  of  the  sloping 
road,  down  which  the  slaves  used  to  carry  in  litters  the 
emperor  and  his  guests  to  the  sea-baths,  of  which  the 
huge  fragments  of  masonry  still  remain  ;  the  arches  of 
an  underground  chamber,  discovered  by  a  proprietor 
lately  in  building  his  house,  and  built  into  it  with  the 
cool  appropriation  and  amalgamation  of  old  and  new, 
which  is  in  Italy  so  amusing — and  so  sad ;  everything 
is  solid,  large,  substantial,  indicating  a  degree  of  civiliza- 
tion equal  or  superior  to  our  own. 

Chambers  underground,  and  long  passages,  are  said 
to  exist  everywhere,  honeycombing  the  hill,  and  com- 
municating between  the  villa  of  Tiberius  and  other 
points  of  the  island.  And  below  the  whole  town  of 
Capri — which  needs  it  sorely ! — there  is  supposed  to  be 
a  complete  system  of  Koman  drainage,  on  the  principle 
of  the  Cloaca  Maxima,  which,  if  any  enterprising  en- 
gineer would  find  and  make  use  of,  he  would  confer  a 
lasting  benefit  on  the  little  community. 

The  dread  of  fever,  which  had  haunted  us  every  step 
in  Naples,  fled  away  like  a  shadow  as  we  stood  on  the 
breezy  top  of  Timberio,  looking  down  on  the  bocca  be- 
tween it  and  Sorrento,  as  Augustus  must  often  have 
look'ed,  watching  the  wheat  ships  sailing  in  from  Alex- 
andria. And  here,  too,  Tiberius  sat  and  gazed,  in  an 


AN   ISLAND   OF   THE   BLEST.  207 

agony  of  suspense,  upon  that  tiny  dot  on  the  blue  sea, 
the  galley  which  he  knew  bore  to  him  the  news  of  the 
result  of  his  letter,  suggesting  the  deposition  of  Sejanus. 
From  this  solitary  island-peak  the  cruel,  clever  emperor 
governed,  or  fancied  he  governed,  the  whole  world. 

If  a  highly  civilized,  it  was  at  heart  a  wholly  demoral- 
ized and  brutal  world.  That  precipice,  several  hundred 
feet  of  sheer  perpendicular  rock,  with  foaming,  boiling 
sea  at  the  bottom — we  look  down  it  shuddering,  and 
wonder  whether  Tiberius  did  really  cast  thence  his 
offending  slaves,  as  tradition  says.  And  what  was  the 
truth  about  the  human  sacrifices  in  that  Temple  of  Mi- 
nerva, or  the  other  one  of  Neptune,  of  which,  scanning 
intently  the  mainland,  we  can  still  see  some  fragmen- 
tary columns  ?  As  we  gaze  upon  the  same  view  that 
must  have  met  all  these  long-dead  eyes,  centuries  of 
history  seem  to  pass  before  us — centuries  wherein  this 
tiny  island  was  the  heart  of  the  civilized  world.  The 
past  grows  strangely  real,  and  the  present  dwindles 
down,  till  one's  own  generation  seems  a  span  as  short  as 
that  of  the  flowers — violets,  anemones,  cyclamen,  that 
deck  the  hillside,  as  they  have  decked  it  for  hundreds 
of  years — just  springing  up  and  perishing  in  a  day. 
Yet,  while  they  last,  how  sweet  they  are ! 

And  how  sweet  was  existence  at  this  minute,  in  spite 
of  the  ghost  of  old  Tiberius  arid  the  story  of  his  cruel- 
ties! 


208  AN   ISLAND   OF   THE   BLEST. 

"  Would  the  signora  like  to  see  a  tarantella  danced  ?" 
asked  the  girl  who  had  shown  us  the  fatal  rock,  duly 
throwing  a  stone  down  and  counting  the  seconds — oh, 
so  many ! — till  it  plunged  into  the  water  below.  Her 
black  eyes  glittered  as  if  she  were  glad  of  any  possible 
excuse  for  dancing,  as  the  signora  certainly  was  for  en- 
joying the  sight  of  it,  or  anything  else  that  was  pleas- 
ant in  this  most  delectable  country. 

So,  within  five  minutes 'there  was  collected  a  joyous 
quartet  —  two  girls,  a  boy  of  twelve,  and  an  old  man, 
whom  they  fetched  from  his  work  in  the  vineyard  be- 
low. He  threw  down  his  spade  and  pruning-knife,  and 
began  to  foot  it  as  lightly  and  cleverly  as  any  of  the 
young  ones. 

Most  tourists  know  the  tarantella — that  most  pictu- 
resque and  dramatic  dance — the  delight  of  the  Italian 
peasants,  and  for  which  they  seem  ready  at  all  times, 
as  the  Irish  are  for  a  jig  and  the  Highlanders  for  a  reel. 
It  is  danced,  I  believe,  especially  well  at  Capri.  Here, 
accompanied  by  the  so-called  "  music"  of  an  old  woman 
on  the  tambourine,  it  was  very  effective,  and  great  was 
the  enjoyment  of  the  performers. 

"  Oh  yes ;  I  like  dancing.  I  have  danced  all  my 
life,"  said  the  old  man,  sitting  down,  hot  and  breath- 
less, but  not  by  any  means  exhausted.  "  I  was  sixty- 
eight  last  May,  and  I  have  had  eleven  children.  Four 
of  them  are  dead,  but  seven  are  alive  still.  And  I  am 


AN   ISLAND   OF   THE   BLEST.  209 

strong ;  I  can  work  among  the  vines  still,  and  I  can 
dance,  too,  as  the  signora  may  observe." 

Then,  wiping  his  brow  and  rearranging  his  shirt- 
sleeves, the  honest  old  fellow  made  us  his  adieus  with 
that  sweet  Italian  courtesy  so  pleasant  and  so  universal, 
and  descended  again  to  his  vines. 

Innocent  as  gay  seems  to  be  life  in  Capri.  But  it  was 
not  always  so.  In  the  time  of  King  Bomba,  many  of  the 
political  sospetti  of  Naples  used  to  be  exiled  here ;  "  re- 
quested "  to  spend  a  few  months  or  years  at  Capri,  where 
they  were  under  as  careful  surveillance  as  Napoleon  at 
Elba.  Many  stories  are  still  current  of  that  reign  of 
terror,  so  little  distant  from  our  own  times,  yet  record- 
ing tyrannies  as  black  as  those  of  the  Roman  emperors. 

Two  true  stories  were  told  us  while  leaning  on  the 
low  wall  of  the  piazza,  watching  the  lilac  glow  of  the 
unseen  sunset,  which  colored  the  lovely  curving  coast — 
Sorrento,  Castellamare,  Pompeii,  Torre  del  Greco,  up 
to  Naples  itself.  Naples  looking  so  beautiful  in  the 
distance,  the  Palace  and  the  Castle  of  St.  Elmo  crowning 
its  heights. 

Yet  in  Bomba's  time  curious  things  used  to  happen  in 
that  said  palace.  Once  his  Majesty  entertained  at  din- 
ner a  particular  friend— i.  e.,  a  suspected  enemy  ;  bade 
him  an  affectionate  addio,  and  courteously  accompanied 
him  to  the  very  door.  There,  just  outside  it,  he  found 
himself  seized  by  the  police. 


210  AN   ISLAND   OF   THE   BLEST. 

"Impossible!"  cried  the  unfortunate.  "I  have  just 
dined  with  the  king;  have  only  this  instant  parted 
from  his  Majesty." 

"  Nevertheless,  here  is  his  Majesty's  warrant  for  the 
Castle  of  St.  Elmo."  Which  the  prisoner  entered  that 
night,  and  never  quitted  more. 

There  was  another  story,  which  I  shall  always  think 
of  in  remembering  that  pretty  little  piazza  and  its  inno- 
cent shops,  where  one  never  could  get  anything  one 
waited,  and  where  the  extraordinary  muddle  of  lan- 
guages— English  and  German,  Italian  and  French — 
over  doors  and  in  windows,  was  rather  bewildering. 

Two  sospetti  —  honorable, '  respectable,  professional 
men — received  orders  to  quit  Naples  for  Capri.  There 
they  remained  for  many  months,  living  the  simplest  of 
lives,  and  apparently  not  even  acquainted  with  one  an- 
other, though  supposed  to  be  friends  and  political  con- 
spirators. At  last,  when  suspicion  had  almost  ceased, 
one  more  plan  was  tried  against  them.  An  old  woman 

came  rushing  in  to  Signer  A ,  imploring  him  to 

come  at  once,  secretly,  to  his  friend  Signor  B ,  who 

was  dying.  Signor  A went,  to  find  it  all  a  ruse, 

and  himself  seized  and  imprisoned.  The  two  gentle- 
men were  afterwards  publicly  whipped  in  this  little, 
quiet  piazza — one  so  severely  that  he  very  soon  died. 

Besides  these  tragedies,  the  memory  of  which  even 
the  wholesome  sway  of  the  "  Re  Galantuomo  "  and  the 


AN   ISLAND   OF   THE   BLEST.  211 

hopes  of  "  Italia  unita  "  cannot  yet  take  away,  there  is 
many  a  romantic  story  current  in  this  romantic  island. 
Love  stories,  of  course,  principally.  The  extreme  beau- 
ty of  the  women,  and  their  high  character  for  purity 
and  faithfulness — alas !  in  the  few  cases  when  the  devil 
has  entered  this  Eden,  he  has  come  in  the  shape  of  a 
"  foreign "  gentleman — also  the  isolation  of  the  place, 
removed  from  the  bad  influences  of  the  mainland,  make 
Capri  a  spot  which,  until  quite  lately,  was  as  primitive 
and  patriarchal  as  could  be  desired.  One  scarcely  won- 
dered to  hear  that  more  than  one  stranger — Englishmen 
especially — had  taken  to  himself  a  Capri  wife,  and  set- 
tled down,  like  ./Eneas  in  Latium,  safe  from  the  storms 
of  the  world.  And  when  we  looked  at  the  fine  faces 
of  the  wives  gradually  waking  up  into  intelligence, 
helped  by  the  natural  grace  and  refinement  which  seem 
inherent  in  Italian  blood;  or  watched  the  "dusky 
brood,"  brown-skinned,  active,  healthy,  ready  for  any 
amount  of  wholesome  English  culture  in  years  to  come, 
we  were  tempted  to  believe  that,  after  all,  these  rash 
forestieri  might  have  done  worse — even  for  themselves. 
Mixed  marriages  are  always  a  certain  risk;  but  I 
have  known  many  between  Italians  and  English  turn 
out  very  happy.  There  seems  a  natural  affinity,  or  a 
harmony  in  contrariety,  between  the  two  races,  which 
often  works  well,  and  the  combined  qualities  result  in  a 
most  satisfactory  third  generation.  Capri,  by-and-by, 


212  AN   ISLAND   OF   THE    BLEST. 

may  owe  much  to  its  immigrants  who  bring  English 
influence,  beneficial  English  influence — would  that  it 
were  always  such ! — to  this  simple  people,  and  gradu- 
ally put  into  their  affectionate,  passionate  natures  the 
quiet  perseverance,  the  stern  truthfulness,  and  the  ab- 
solute probity  of  the  North.  Then,  too,  will  come  a 
sense  of  dignity  and  necessity  of  education,  so  that  fut- 
ure visitors  may  not  receive  such  an  answer  as  I  got, 
when  asking  whether  I  should  write  out  the  list  of 
clothes  for  the  wash  in  French  or  Italian.  "  Oh,  which- 
ever the  signora  pleases.  It  is  only  for  her  own  amuse- 
ment. Nobody  here  can  read  or  write;  it  is  not  our 
habit  at  Capri." 

This  novel  "habit"  is,  however,  in  the  course  of  be- 
ing acquired.  Our  padrone^  for  instance,  besides  his 
native  Caprese,  could  both  speak  and  write  English, 
French,  and  Italian ;  but  then  he  had  spent  two  years 
in  England,  and  had  gained  some  English  ideas  which 
very  much  added  to  the  comfort  of  his  guests.  If  he 
has  the  sense  and  firmness  to  keep  to  them  ;  to  manage 
his  hotel  with  order,  cleanliness,  and  punctuality;  to 
institute  and  maintain  that  conscientious  exactitude  in 
all  things  which  it  is  so  difficult  to  find  abroad,  espe- 
cially in  hotel  life,  where  you  get  no  end  of  useless  lux- 
uries, but  scarcely  any  comforts — I  can  imagine  no  more 
delightful  and  sanitary  resting-place  than  the  Quisisana 
Hotel,  Capri. 


AN    ISLAND   OF   THE   BLEST.  213 

Especially  for  that  only  too  numerous  and  too  pa- 
thetic class  of  health-seekers,  who,  their  brains  being 
their  sole  capital,  cannot  afford  to  waste  money  after  the 
fashion  of  the  ordinary  tourist,  but  even  while  resting 
must  work,  and  while  idling  require  to  find  some  intel- 
ligent companionship,  or  some  sufficiently  vivid  inter- 
est to  make  life  tolerable  for  the  time  being.  To  such 
I  would  say,  Go  to  Capri.  It  will  never  be  a  fashiona- 
ble resort;  the  difficulty  of  going  and  coming  is  too 
great ;  but  for  those  who  go,  and  stay  there,  its  ad- 
vantages are  many. 

First,  its  expenses  are  not  ruinous.  Life  at  Capri  is, 
and  may  easily  be  kept,  simple  to  a  degree.  Secondly, 
it  is  interesting.  The  archaeologist,  the  painter,  the  stu- 
dent of  human  nature,  may  find  endless  subjects  of 
investigation  ;  and  the  student  of  any  sort  will  find  the 
one  great  requisite  for  brain-work,  quiet  mixed  with 
amusement.  Then,  too,  the  climate  is  perfection.  Even 
in  summer  the  height  of  the  little  island,  and  its  con- 
stant exposure  to  sea-breezes,  make  it  never  too  hot ;  but 
from  November  till  May  it  is  truly  "  an  Island  of  the 
Blest,"  a  sort  of  Avallon, 

"  Where  never  wind  blows  loudly." 

No,  I  retract ;  for  once  I  stood,  or  rather  crawled  on 
all  fours  for  safety,  along  a  rocky  path,  for  fear  of  be- 
ing blown  quite  away.  But  it  was  a  soft,  and  not  un- 
kindly, wind.  That  cruel  east  and  scathing  north  which 


214  AN   ISLAND   OF   THE   BLEST. 

wither  you  up  like  grass,  and  pierce  arrow-like  to  the 
very  marrow  of  your  bones,  never  come  here,  no  more 
than  the  continuous  drizzly  rain,  damp,  and  fog  which 
make  life  a  burden  to  so  many  of  as  for  six  months  of 
an  English  year. 

True,  Paradise  has  its  weak  points.  That  exquisite 
greenness  which  our  humid  climate  produces  is  certainly 
not  found  here.  Arran,  and  many  of  the  Scottish  isl- 
ands and  Highlands,  are,  for  general  effects  of  color,  far 
more  beautiful  than  Capri,  where  vegetation  withers 
under  the  long  droughts,  which  are  not  uncommon,  and 
against  which  the  only  resort  of  the  islanders  is  to  take 
their  patron  saint  out  of  his  cupboard  and  institute  a 
special  festa  in  his  honor.  They  did  so  this  year,  after 
which  ensued  such  a  violent  storm  that  the  saint  was 
hurriedly  put  back  again  into  his  cupboard  and  told 
"  he  was  not  wanted."  And  next  Sunday  the  priest 
preached  a  special  sermon  on  the  occasion,  explaining 
that  it  had  lately  been  supposed  bad  weather  came  from 
America ;  it  might  do  so  to  the  English  heretics,  but 
all  good  Catholics  must  see  clearly  that  the  Capri  rain 
came  direct  from  San  Costanzo. 

However,  the  good  saint  never  gave  us  one  single 
drop  all  the  time  we  stayed  there.  From  early  dawn, 
breaking  over  the  smooth  seas,  to  silent  starlight,  when, 
crossing  the  deserted  piazza — all  Capri  seems  asleep  by 
nine  P.M. — we  used  to  lean  on  the  low  wall  and  watch 


AN   ISLAND   OF   THE   BLEST.  215 

the  red  glow  which  at  night  succeeded  the  white  spiral 
smoke  of  the  beautiful  Enemy  opposite;  hour  after 
hour  of  the  delicious  day  the  island  took  a  new  aspect, 
each  lovelier  than  the  last. 

Now,  as  I  look  out,  shivering,  and  hear  the  howl  of 
the  wild  June  wind,  fierce  as  any  equinoctial  gale ;  as  I 
see  the  mist  creeping  oyer  the  mowing-grass  and  the 
rain  dropping  from  the  full-leaved  trees,  I  am  forced  to 
own  that  this  dear  old  England  of  ours  has  its  faults. 
To  certain  delicate  people,  living  in  it  all  the  year 
round  is  something  like  being  married  to  a  very  excel- 
lent but  acrid  wife :  we  admire  all  her  good  qualities, 
we  would  not  part  from  her  for  the  world  —  but  if 
only  she  were  a  trifle  more  even-tempered ! 

Nor  am  I  faithless  to  my  own  land — the  land  I  am 
glad  to  live  in  and  hope  to  die  in — if,  on  this  terribly 
wet  day,  I  think  (with  an  involuntary  constriction  of 
the  throat,  and  a  sigh  that  I  vainly  try  to  suppress)  of 
that  lovely,  sunshiny  March  day  when,  renouncing  my 
donkey,  I  descended  on  foot  the  familiar  path  to  the 
Marina,  and  for  the  last  time  looked  up  to  the  heights 
of  Timberio,  and  down  to  the  shining  waters  of  the 
little  bay  below.  Between  were  the  olive-terraces ;  the 
vineyards,  scarcely  budding  yet ;  the  peach-gardens,  one 
mass  of  blossom ;  and  the  quaint  little  town.  Above,  on 
the  top  of  the  hill,  wound  the  road  to  Anacapri.  Beyond 
were  the  various  peaks,  each  surmounted  with  some 


216  AN   ISLAND   OF    THE   BLEST. 

relic  of  a  Roman  emperor  or  mediaeval  pirate,  who  had 
left  here  his  mark  or  his  name.  Stormy  times  has  the 
little  island  passed  through  ;  yet  it  looked  so  sweet,  so 
sunny,  the  abode  of  pleasantness  and  peace  ! 

Our  friends,  Italian  and  English,  young  and  old,  poor 
and  rich,  had  either  accompanied  us  down  to  the  beach, 
or  were  gathered  on  the  little  quay  to  bid  us  good-bye — 
"Addio,  mia  bella  Capri — addio,  addio, 

Dolce  memorie  d'  vm  tempo  felice." 

So  sang  the  wandering  vocalist  as  the  boat  glided  away. 
(I  must  confess  that  he  had  before  sung  the  same  song, 
with  an  equally  tender  expression,  only  altering  the 
words  to  "  Addio,  mia  bella  Napoli"  which  was  a  de- 
cided mistake.)  His  voice  was  very  touching,  and  the 
scene  very  sweet — a  scene  that  (who  knows  ?)  we  may 
never  behold  again. 

It  was  weak-minded,  but  I  own  that  in  my  last  look 
at  Capri  I  did  not  see  the  beautiful  island  too  clearly. 


HOW  SHE  TOLD  A  LIE 


10 


HOW  SHE  TOLD  A  LIE. 


THE  three  travellers— kind  Cousin  Eva,  with  her 
young  charges  Cherry  and  Ruth — were  standing  on 
the  staircase  of  the  curious  old  Hotel  de  Bourgthe'roude, 
by  the  Place  de  la  Pucelle,  Rouen.  That  narrow, 
gloomy  little  square  looked  still  narrower  and  gloomier 
in  the  drizzle  of  the  dull  November  day  ;  and  the  ugly 
pump  in  the  middle  of  it,  with  a  still  uglier  statue  on 
the  top,  marking  the  place  where  Jeanne  d'Arc  was 
burned,  had  been  a  sore  disappointment  to  the  children. 
They  had  come,  as  enthusiastic  little  pilgrims,  to  see 
the  spot  where  their  favorite  heroine  died ;  and  Cousin 
Eva  could  hardly  get  them  to  believe  that  it  was  the 
spot ;  that  the  common-looking  market-place,  where  a 
few  ordinary  modern  market-people  were  passing  and 
repassing,  had  actually  been  the  scene  of  the  cruel  deed ; 
that  from  the  very  identical  windows  of  those  very 
identical  houses  brutal  eyes  had  watched  the  maid, 
standing,  with  the  flames  curling  round  her,  clasping 
the  rude  cross  which  some  charitable  soul  pushed  tow- 
ards her. 


220  HOW    SHE   TOLD   A   LIE. 

"  Do  you  remember,"  Cousin  Eva  said,  "  how,  at  the 
last  moment,  she  retracted  all  the  false  confession  of 
heresy  and  witchcraft  which  torture  had  wrung  from 
her,  and  exclaimed, '  Yes,  my  voices  were  of  God  ?'  And 
how,  when  she  saw  the  flames  approaching  her,  she  shut 
her  eyes,  called  out  once  *  Jesus !'  dropped  her  head 
upon  her  breast,  and  that  was  all — until  they  raked  up 
a  handful  of  charred  bones  out  of  the  embers,  and  threw 
them  into  the  Seine  ?" 

The  children  looked  grave.  At  last  they  did  realize 
it  all. 

"I  wonder  what  sort  of  a  day  it  was,"  whispered 
Cherry ;  "  dull  and  gloomy,  like  to-day,  or  with  a  bright, 
blue,  sunshiny  sky  ?  Perhaps  she  looked  up  at  it  be- 
fore the  fire  touched  her.  And  perhaps  he  stood  here 
— just  where  we  stand — the  English  soldier  who  cried 
out, '  We  have  burned  a  saint !' " 

"  And  so  she  was,"  said  Ruth,  with  a  quiver  passing 
over  the  eager  little  face ;  "  a  real  saint." 

"  But,  Cousin  Eva,"  added  Cherry, "  why  did  she  ever 
own  to  being  a  witch  ?  and  how  could  she  say  her 
voices  were  not  true  when  she  believed  they  were  true  ? 
One  way  or  other,  she  must  have  told  a  lie." 

Miss  Cherry  was  of  an  argumentative,  rather  than  a 
sentimental,  turn.  She  thought  a  good  deal  herself,  and 
liked  to  make  other  people  think  too,  so  as  to  enable 
her  to  get  to  the  bottom  of  things.  She  could  never 


HOW   SHE    TOLD   A   LIE.  221 

overlook  the  slightest  break  in  a  chain  of  practical  rea- 
soning ;  and,  if  she  had  a  contempt  in  this  world,  it  was 
for  a  weak  person,  or  a  person  who  told  a  lie.  This 
flaw,  even  in  her  favorite  Maid  of  Orleans,  otherwise  so 
strong  and  brave,  was  too  much  for  Cherry  to  pass  over. 

"  Do  you  not  think,"  said  Cousin  Eva, "  that  it  would 
be  possible,  under  stress  of  circumstances,  to  tell  a  lie — 
to  confess  to  something  one  had  never  done  ?  Bishop 
Cranmer,  for  instance.  Have  you  forgotten  how  he 
signed  a  recantation,  and  then  thrust  into  the  flames 
'  that  unworthy  right  hand  ?'  And  Galileo,  when  forced 
by  the  Inquisition  to  declare  the  earth  stood  still,  but 
muttered  afterwards,  *  E pur  si  muwe?  Yes,  yes,"  con- 
tinued she,  "  one  never  knows  what  one  may  be  driven 
to  do  till  the  time  comes.  The  force  of  torture  is  very 
strong.  Once  upon  a  time,  I  remember,  I  told  a  lie." 

"  You  told  a  lie !"  echoed  Cherry,  looking  with  amaze- 
ment into  the  bright,  sweet,  honest  face — rosy-cheeked, 
blue-eyed,  her  little  cousins  themselves  had  not  more 
innocent  eyes — as  clear  and  as  round  as  a  baby's. 

"  But  nobody  ever  tortured  you  ?"  added  tender- 
hearted Kuth,  clinging  to  the  kindly  hand,  which,  in- 
deed, she  never  went  far  away  from  in  these  alarming 
"  foreign  parts." 

"No,  my  little  girl;  the  thumb-screws,  the  rack,  and 
the  maiden  belong,  luckily,  to  that  room  in  the  Tower 
where  we  saw  them  one  day ;  and  we  are  in  the  nine- 


222  HOW   SHE   TOLD   A   LIE. 

teenth,  and  not  the  fifteenth,  century.  Still,  even  now- 
adays a  good  deal  of  moral  torture  can  be  brought  to 
bear  upon  one  occasionally,  especially  when  one  is  only 
a  child,  as  I  was  then  ;  and  I  was  tried  sharply — enough 
to  make  me  remember  it  even  now — and  feel  quite  sure 
that  if  I  had  been  Jeanne  d'Arc  I  should  very  likely 
have  done  exactly  as  she  did !  Also  I  learned,  what  I 
have  tried  to  put  into  practice  ever  since,  that  nothing 
makes  people  liars  like  disbelieving  them." 

Ruth  gave  a  little  tender  pressure  to  the  hand  she 
held,  while  Cherry  said,  proudly,  "You  never  disbelieved 
us,  and  you  never  need  do  it !  But  tell  us,  Cousin  Eva, 
about  the  lie  you  told.  Was  it  denying  something  you 
had  done,  or  owning  to  something  you  were  innocent 
of,  like  poor  Jeanne  d'Arc?  Do  tell !  You  know  how 
we  like  a  story." 

"  What,  here,  in  this  pelting  rain  ?"  answered  Cousin 
Eva,  as  she  proceeded  to  investigate  from  under  her  um- 
brella the  curious  bass-reliefs  of  the  Field  of  the  Cloth 
of  Gold,  which  still  remain  in  the  court  of  the  Hotel  du 
Bourgthe'roude.  "  No,  children ;  you  must  wait  a  more 
desirable  opportunity." 

Which,  however,  was  not  long  in  coming.  The  day 
brightened  —  grew  into  one  of  those  exquisite  days 
which  French  people  call  "  Pe'te  de  St.  Martin  " — and 
truly  I  know  nothing  like  it,  except  what  it  most  re- 
sembles— a  sweet,  peaceful,  contented  old-age.  So  Cousin 


HOW   SHE  TOLD   A   LIE.  223 

Eva  decided  to  take  the  children  to  a  place  which  she 
had  herself  once  seen  and  never  forgotten,  the  little 
church  on  a  hill-top,  called  Notre  Dame  de  Bon  Secours. 
"Is  that  the  same  which  Alice  sings  about  in  the 
opera  of  « Kobert  le  Diable'2"  said  Cherry,  and  struck 
up,  in  her  clear,  young  voice, 

"  Quand  je  quittais  ma  Normandie." 

"  Kouen  is  in  Normandy,  so  of  course  it  was  the  same — 

" '  Daigne  protgger  nos  amours, 
Notre  Dame  de  Bon  Secoure.'" 

"  Very  likely  it  was  the  same,  though  yon  need  not 
sing  so  loud,  Cherry,  or  the  hotel  people  will  hear  you," 
said  timid  Ruth. 

They  went.  Exceedingly  the  children  enjoyed  the 
stiff  climb  up  the  hill,  and  admired  the  lovely  building, 
all  ablaze  with  brilliant  but  harmonious  coloring,  and 
the  little  side-chapels,  filled  with  innumerable  votive 
inscriptions,  "  A  Marie,"  "Graces  a  Marie,"  "Elle  a  ex- 
auce'  mes  voaux,"  etc.  Curious,  simple,  almost  childish 
it  all  was,  yet  touching  to  those  who  feel,  as  Cousin  Eva 
did,  that  to  believe  earnestly  in  anything  is  better  than 
believing  in  nothing. 

Afterwards  they  all  sat  and  rested  in  one  of  the  pret- 
tiest resting-places  I  know,  for  those  that  live  and  move, 
or  for  "  them  that  sleep  " — the  graveyard  on  the  hill- 


224:  HOW    SHE   TOLD   A   LIE. 

top,  close  behind  the  Church  of  Notre  Dame  de  Bon 
Secours.  From  this  high  point  they  could  see  the 
whole  country  for  miles  and  miles,  the  Seine  winding 
through  it  in  picturesque  curves.  Eouen,  with  its 
bridges  and  streets,  distinct  as  in  a  map,  lay  at  their 
right  hand,  and  rising  out  of  the  mass  of  houses,  ethe- 
realized  by  the  yellow  sunset  light,  were  the  two  spires 
of  the  Cathedral  and  the  Church  of  St.  Ouen. 

"  Can  you  see  the  market-place,  Cousin  Eva  ?  If  so, 
poor  Jeanne  d'Arc,  when  she  was  brought  out  to  die, 
must  have  seen  this  hill,  with  the  church  on  the  top  of 
it — that  is,  supposing  there  was  a  church." 

"  There  might  have  been,  though  not  this  one,  which 
is  modern,  you  see." 

"I  wonder," continued  Cherry,  who  was  always  won- 
dering, "  if  she  looked  up  at  it,  and  thought  it  hard 
that  Notre  Dame  de  Bon  Secours  should  not  have  suc- 
cored her ;  perhaps,  because,  to  escape  from  the  heretic 
English,  she  had  told  a  lie." 

"  And  that  reminds  me,"  added  Ruth,  who  was  not 
given  to  ethical  questions,  "  that  while  we  sit  and  rest, 
we  might  hear  from  Cousin  Eva  about  the  lie  she  told." 

"  Yes,  yes.  Please  say,  Cousin  Eva,  was  it  a  big  or 
a  little  one?  Why  did  you  tell  it?  And  was  it  ever 
found  out  ?" 

"I  don't  see  the  difference  between  big  and  little 
falsehoods,  my  child.  A  lie  is  a  lie,  though  sometimes 


HOW    SHE   TOLD   A   LIE.  225 

there  are  extenuating  circumstances  in  the  reason  for 
telling  it.  And  once  told,  the  question  whether  or  not 
it  is  ever  found  out  does  not  matter.  My  lie  never  was 
found  out,  but  it  grieved  me  all  the  same." 

"  "Will  it  grieve  you  to  tell  about  it  ?  I  should  not 
like  that,"  said  Euth,  softly. 

"No,  dear,  because  I  have  long  since  forgiven  my- 
self. I  was  such  a  small  child,  much  younger  than 
either  of  you,  and,  unlike  you,  I  had  no  parents,  only 
an  aunt  and  uncle  and  a  lot  of  rough  cousins,  who  dom- 
ineered over  me  and  made  me  afraid.  That  was  the 
cause.  The  sure  way  to  make  a  child  untruthful  is  to 
make  it  afraid.  I  remember,  as  if  it  were  yesterday, 
the  shudder  of  terror  that  came  over  me  when  my 
eldest  cousin  clutched  me  by  the  shoulder,  saying, '  Did 
you  do  that  ?'  " 

"And  what  had  you  done?"  asked  Cherry. 

"  Nothing,  but  Will  thought  I  had.  We  were  all 
digging  in  our  gardens,  and  he  had  just  found  his 
favorite  jessamine  plant  lying  uprooted  on  the  ground. 
It  had  been  my  favorite,  too ;  but  Will  took  it  from  me 
and  planted  it  in  his  own  garden,  where  I  watched  it 
anxiously,  for  I  was  afraid  it  would  die. 

" «  She  did  it  on  purpose,'  Will  insisted  ;  «  or  if  not 
out  of  revenge,  out  of  pure  silliness.  Girls  are  always 
so  silly.  Didn't  she  propose  yesterday  to  dig  it  up  just 
to  see  if  it  had  got  a  root  ?' 

10* 


226  HOW   SHE   TOLD   A   LIE. 

"  Which  was  quite  true.  I  was  a  very  silly  little  girl, 
but  I  meant  no  harm ;  I  wouldn't  for  the  world  have 
harmed  either  Will  or  his  jessamine.  I  told  him  so,  but 
he  would  not  believe  me,  nor  would  any  of  them.  They 
all  stood  round,  and  declared  I  must  have  done  it.  No- 
body else  had  been  in  the  garden,  except,  indeed,  a  dog, 
who  was  in  the  habit  of  burying  his  bones  there.  He 
was  the  sinner ;  but  they  never  thought  of  him,  only  of 
me.  And  when  I  denied  doing  it,  they  were  only  the 
more  angry. 

"  '  You  know  you  are  telling  a  lie.  And  where  do 
little  girls  go  to  that  tell  lies?'  cried  Will,  who  some- 
times told  them  himself ;  but  then  he  was  a  boy,  and 
it  was  a  rule  in  that  family — a  terribly  mistaken  one — 
that  the  boys  might  do  anything,  and  the  girls  must  al- 
ways give  in  to  the  boys.  So  when  Will  looked  fierce- 
ly at  me,  repeating,  '  You  know  you  did  it,'  I  almost 
felt  as  if  I  really  had  done  it.  Unable  to  find  another 
word,  I  began  to  cry. 

" '  Look  here,  you  children ' — he  called  all  the  rest 
children  — '  Eva  has  gone  and  pulled  up  my  jessa- 
mine, out  of  spite,  or  mischief,  or  pure  silliness.  I  don't 
know  which,  and  I  don't  care.  I'd  forgive  her,  if  she 
would  confess,  but  she  won't.  She  keeps  on  telling  lie 
after  lie,  and  we  won't  stand  children  that  tell  lies.  If 
we  punish  her,  she'll  howl,  so  I  propose  that  until  she 
confesses  we  all  send  her  to  Coventry.' 


HOW   SHE   TOLD   A   LIE.  227 

" '  It's  a  very  nice  town,  but  I  don't  want  to  go  there,' 
said  I,  at  which  I  remember  they  all  burst  out  laughing, 
and  I  cried  only  the  more. 

"  I  had  no  idea  what  '  sending  to  Coventry '  meant, 
unless  it  was  like  sending  to  Siberia,  which  I  had  late- 
ly been  reading  of,  or  to  the  quicksilver-mines,  where 
condemned  convicts  were  taken,  and  where  nobody  ever 
lived  more  than  two  years.  Perhaps  there  were  quick- 
silver-mines at  Coventry !  A  cold  shudder  of  fear  ran 
through  me,  but  I  was  utterly  powerless.  I  could  but 
die. 

"Soon  I  discovered  what  my  punishment  was;  and, 
though  not  death,  it  was  hard  enough.  Fancy,  children, 
being  treated  day  after  day,  and  all  day  long,  just  as  if 
you  were  a  chair  or  a  table — never  taken  the  least  no- 
tice of,  never  answered  if  you  spoke,  never  spoken  to 
on  any  account ;  never  played  with,  petted,  or  scolded. 
Completely  and  absolutely  ignored.  This  was  being 
'sent  to  Coventry,'  and  it  was  as  cruel  a  punishment  as 
could  have  been  inflicted  upon  any  little  girl,  especially 
a  sensitive  little  girl  who  liked  her  playfellows,  rough 
as  they  were,  and  was  very  fond  of  one  of  them,  who 
was  never  rough,  but  always  kind  and  good. 

"This  was  a  little  boy  who  lived  next  door.  His 
parents,  like  mine,  were  out  in  India ;  nor  had  he  any 
brothers  or  sisters.  He  was  just  my  age,  and  younger 
than  any  of  my  cousins.  So  we  were  the  best  of  friends, 


228  HOW    SHE   TOLD   A    LIE. 

Tommy  and  I.  His  surname  I  have  forgotten,  but  I 
know  we  always  called  him  Tommy,  and  that  I  loved 
him  dearly.  The  bitterest  pang  of  all  this  bitter  time 
was  that  even  Tommy  went  over  to  the  enemy. 

"At  first  he  had  been  very  sorry  for  me — had  tried, 
all  through  that  holiday  Saturday  when  my  punishment 
began,  to  persuade  me  to  confess  and  escape  it ;  and 
when  he  failed — for  how  could  I  confess  to  what  I  had 
never  done  ?  to  an  action  so  mean  that  I  would  have 
been  ashamed  even  to  have  thought  of  doing? — then 
Tommy  also  sent  me  to  Coventry.  On  the  Sunday, 
when  all  'us  children  ' — we  didn't  mind  grammar  much 
in  those  days — walked  to  church  together  across  the 
fields,  and  Tommy  always  walked  with  me,  chattering 
the  whole  way,  we  walked  in  total  silence,  for  Will's 
eye  was  upon  him,  and  even  Tommy  was  afraid. 
Whatever  I  said,  he  never  answered  a  single  word. 

"  Then  I  felt  as  if  all  the  world  were  against  me — as 
if  it  were  no  use  trying  to  be  good,  or  telling  the  truth, 
since  even  the  truth  was  regarded  as  a  lie.  In  short,  in 
my  small,  childish  way,  I  suffered  much  as  poor  Jeanne 
d'Arc  must  have  suffered  when  she  was  shut  up  in  her 
prison  at  Rouen,  called  a  witch,  a  deceiver — forsaken  of 
all,  and  yet  promised  pardon  if  she  would  only  confess 
and  own  she  was  a  wicked  woman,  which  she  knew  she 
was  not. 

"  I  was  quite  innocent,  but  after  three  days  of  being 


HOW    SHE   TOLD   A   LIE.  229 

supposed  guilty  I  ceased  to  care  whether  I  was  guilty 
or  not.  I  seemed  not  to  care  for  anything.  Since  they 
supposed  I  was  capable  of  such  a  mean  thing  as  pulling 
up  a  harmless  jessamine-root  out  of  spite,  what  did  it 
matter  whether  they  thought  I  had  told  a  lie  or  not  ? 
or,  indeed,  whether  I  did  tell  one?  which  evidently 
would  be  much  easier  than  telling  the  truth;  and  every 
day  my  '  sticking  it  out,'  and  persisting  in  the  truth,  be- 
came more  difficult. 

"This  state  of  things  continued  till  Wednesday, 
which  was  our  half-holiday,  when  my  cousins  usually 
went  a  long  walk  or  played  cricket,  and  I  was  sent  in  to 
spend  the  afternoon  with  Tommy.  They  were  the  de- 
light of  my  life,  those  long,  quiet  "Wednesdays,  when 
Tommy  and  I  went  '  mooning  about,'  dug  in  our  gar- 
den, watched  our  tadpoles — we  had  a  hand-basin  full  of 
them,  which  we  kept  in  the  arbor  till  they  developed 
into  myriads  of  frogs  and  went  hopping  about  every- 
where. But  even  tadpoles  could  not  charm  me  now, 
and  I  dreaded,  rather  than  longed  for,  my  half-holi- 
day. 

"  School  had  been  difficult  enough,  for  Tommy  and  I 
had  the  same  daily  governess ;  but  if,  when  we  played 
together,  he  was  never  to  speak  to  me,  what  should  I 
do?  And  his  grandmother  would  be  sure  to  find  it 
out ;  and  she  was  a  prim  and  rather  strict  old  lady,  to 
whom  a  child  who  had  been  sent  to  Coventry  for  tell- 


230  HOW   SHE   TOLD   A   LIE. 

ing  a  lie  would  be  a  perfect  abhorrence.  What  could  I 
do  ?  Would  it  not  be  better  to  hide  away  somewhere, 
so  as  to  escape  going  into  Tommy's  house  at  all  ?  In- 
deed, I  almost  think  some  vague  thought  of  running 
away  and  hiding  myself  forever  crossed  my  mind,  when 
I  heard  Will  calling  me. 

"  He  and  two  of  the  others  were  standing  at  the  front 
door — a  terrible  Council  of  Three  (like  that  which  used 
to  sentence  to  death  the  victims  in  the  Prigioni,  which 
we  saw  last  month  at  Venice).  I  felt  not  unlike  a  con- 
demned prisoner — one  who  had  been  shut  up  so  long 
that  death  came  almost  as  a  relief — which  it  must  often 
have  been  to  those  poor  souls.  These  three  big  boys 
stood  over  me  like  judges  over  a  criminal,  and  Tommy 
stood  beside  them  looking  very  sad. 

"  'Little  girl,'  said  Will,  in  quite  a  judicial  tone,  '  we 
think  you  have  been  punished  enough  to  make  you  thor- 
oughly ashamed  of  yourself.  We  wish  you  to  go  and 
play  with  Tommy  as  usual ;  but  Tommy  could  not  pos- 
sibly have  you  unless  you  were  out  of  Coventry.  We 
will  give  you  one  chance  more.  Confess  that  you 
pulled  up  the  jessamine,  and  we'll  forgive  you,  and  tell 
nobody  about  you ;  and  you  shall  go  and  have  tea  with 
Tommy  just  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  Think — you 
have  only  to  say  one  word.' 

"'And  if  I  don't  say  it?' 

"  *  Then,'  answered  Will,  with  a  solemn  and  awful  ex- 


HOW   SHE   TOLD   A   LIE.  231 

pression,  '  I  shall  be  obliged  immediately  to  tell  every- 
body everything.' 

"  That  terrible  threat,  all  the  more  formidable  be- 
cause of  its  vagueness,  quite  overcame  me.  To  be  set 
down  as  a  liar  or  to  become  one ;  to  be  punished  as  I 
knew  my  aunt  would  punish  me,  on  her  son's  mere 
statement,  for  a  wrong  thing  I  had  never  done ;  or  to 
do  a  wrong  thing,  and,  escaping  punishment,  go  back  to 
my  old  happy  life  with  my  dear  Tommy,  who  stood,  the 
tears  in  his  eyes,  awaiting  my  decision. 

"It  was  a  hard  strait — too  hard  for  one  so  young. 
And  Will  stood  over  me,  with  his  remorseless  eyes. 

"  *  "Well,  now ;  say  once  for  all,  did  you  pull  up  my 
jessamine  ?' 

"It  was  too  much.  Sullenly — slowly — I  made  up 
my  mind  to  the  inevitable,  and  answered,  '  Since  you 
will  have  it  so — Yes.'  But  the  instant  I  had  said  it,  I 
fell  into  such  a  fit  of  sobbing — almost  hysterical  scream- 
ing— that  they  were  all  frightened  and  ran  away. 

"  Tommy  stayed,  terrified.  He  got  me  away  into 
the  arbor  as  fast  as  he  could.  I  felt  his  arms  round  my 
neck,  and  his  comforting  was  very  tender,  very  sweet. 
But  I  was  long  before  I  stopped  crying,  and  still  longer 
before  anything  like  cheerfulness  came  into  my  poor 
little  heart.  We  played  together  all  the  afternoon  very 
affectionately,  but  in  a  rather  melancholy  sort  of  way, 
as  if  we  had  something  on  our  minds,  to  which  we  never 


232  HOW   SHE   TOLD   A   LIE. 

made  the  smallest  reference.  "Tommy  was  a  timid  boy, 
and  Will  had  cowed  him  into  unkindness ;  but  he  loved 
me.  I  knew  he  loved  me ;  only,  as  is  often  the  case,  if 
his  love  had  had  a  little  more  courage  it  would  have 
been  all  the  better  for  me — perhaps  for  him,  too. 

"  We  spent  a  peaceful  but  rather  dull  afternoon,  and 
then  were  summoned  in-doors  to  tea. 

"  Now,  tea  at  Tommy's  house  was  a  serious  thing. 
Tommy's  grandmother  always  sat  at  the  table,  and 
looked  at  us  through  her  spectacles,  and  talked  to  us  in 
a  formal  and  dignified  manner,  asking  if  we  had  been 
good  children,  had  learned  our  lessons  well,  had  played 
together  without  quarrelling,  etc.,  etc.  She  was  a  kind 
old  lady,  but  she  always  made  us  feel  that  she  was  an 
old  lady,  years  upon  years  older  than  we,  and  unable  to 
understand  us  at  all.  Consequently,  we  never  did  more 
than  answer  her  questions  and  hold  our  tongues.  As 
for  telling  her  anything — our  troubles  especially — we 
would  as  soon  have  thought  of  confiding  in  the  Queen, 
or  the  Emperor  of  all  the  Russias. 

"  I  never  opened  my  lips  all  tea-time,  and  at  last  she 
noticed  it.  Also  that  my  eyes  were  rather  red. 

"  '  This  little  girl  looks  as  if  she  had  been  crying.  I 
hope  you  have  not  made  her  cry,  Tommy,  my  dear?' 

"Tommy  was  silent.  But  I  eagerly  declared  that 
Tommy  had  not  made  me  cry.  Tommy  was  never  un- 
kind to  me. 


HOW   SUE   TOLD    A   LIE.  233 

"  'I  am  glad  to  hear  it,  Evangeline'  (she  always  gave 
me  my  full  name) ;  '  and  I  hope  you,  too,  are  a  good 
child,  who  is  never  in  mischief,  and,  above  all,  never 
tells  lies.  If  I  were  not  quite  sure  of  that,  I  could  not 
allow  Tommy  to  play  with  you.' 

"  She  looked  us  full  in  the  face  as  if  she  saw  through 
and  through  us — which  she  did  not>  being  very  short- 
sighted— yet  I  felt  myself  tremble  in  every  limb.  As 
for  Tommy,  he  just  glanced  at  me,  and  glanced  away 
again,  turning  crimson  to  the  very  roots  of  his  hair,  but 
he  said  nothing. 

"What  would  have  happened  next,  I  cannot  tell;  we 
waited  in  terror,  holding  one  another's  hands  under  the 
table-cloth.  But,  mercifully,  at  that  very  instant  the 
old  lady  was  fetched  to  speak  with  some  one,  and  we 
two  children  had  to  finish  our  tea  alone. 

"It  almost  choked  us — me,  at  any  rate.  But  soon  as 
ever  it  was  over,  and  Tommy  and  I  found  ourselves 
safe  out  in  the  garden,  I  flung  my  arms  round  his  neck 
and  told  him  all. 

"  And  Tommy  believed  me.  No  matter  whether  the 
others  did  or  not,  Tommy  believed  me — at  last.  Tom- 
my sympathized  with  me,  comforted  me,  thought  I  was 
not  so  very  wicked  even  though  I  had  told  a  lie,  but  not 
the  one  I  was  accused  of  telling.  Tommy  wept  with  me 
over  all  I  had  suffered,  and  promised  that,  though  per- 
haps it  was  better  to  let  the  matter  rest  now,  if  such  a 


234:  HOW   SHE   TOLD   A   LIE. 

thing  were  to  happen  again  he  would  not  be  afraid  of 
Will  or  of  anybody,  but  would  stand  up  for  me  '  like  a 
man.' " 

"  And  did  he  do  it  2"  asked  Cherry,  with  slight  in- 
credulity in  her  tone. 

"  He  had  not  the  opportunity.  A  week  after  this  he 
was  suddenly  sent  -for  to  join  his  parents  abroad,  and  I 
never  saw  my  friend  Tommy  any  more." 

"  But  did  you  never  hear  of  him  ?  Is  he  alive  still  ? 
He  must  be  a  very  old  gentleman  by  this  time." 

"  Very.  No  doubt  a  father  ;  possibly  even  a  grand- 
father," replied  Cousin  Eva,  smiling. 

Cherry  blushed.  "  I  didn't  mean  that,  since  he  was 
barely  as  old  as  you,  and  you  are  certainly  not  a  grand- 
mother. But  I  want  to  hear  more  of  Tommy.  Is  he 
married  ? 

"  I  really  cannot  say.  The  last  time  I  heard  of  him 
was  ten  years  ago,  when  he  was  living  somewhere  abroad. 
I  rather  think  at  Shanghai.  He  was  not  married  then." 

"I  wish,"  whispered  Euth,  solemnly — "I  wish  he 
would  come  back  to  England  and  marry  you." 

Cousin  Eva  laughed.  "  There  might  be  two  opinions 
on  that  question,  you  know.  But,  oh,  my  children ! 
when  you  are  married  and  have  children  of  your  own, 
remember  my  story.  If  ever  a  poor  little  thing  looks 
up  in  your  face,  saying, '  I  didn't  do  that,'  believe  it.  If 
it  sobs  out,  '  I'm  not  naughty,'  don't  call  it  naughty. 


HOW   SHE   TOLD   A  LIE.  235 

Give  it  the  benefit  of  the  doubt.  Have  patience,  take 
time,  and,  whatever  you  do,  don't  make  it  afraid.  Cow- 
ards are  always  liars;  and,  of  the  two  evils,  it  is  less 
harmful  to  believe  a  lie  than  to  doubt  a  person  who  is 
speaking  the  truth." 

"  I  think  so,  too,"  said  Cherry,  sagely.  "  Eemember 
poor  Jeanne  d'Arc." 

"  And  poor  Cousin  Eva,"  added  Kuth,  kissing  her 
hand. 

And  so,  in  the  fading  twilight,  the  three  rose  up  to- 
gether, and  went  down  the  hill  from  Notre  Dame  de 
Bon  Secours. 


A  RUINED  PALACE 


A  RUINED  PALACE. 


WE  had  decided  on  a  "  day  out " — out  of  Paris,  with 
its  noise  and  confusion ;  which,  for  the  first  time,  we 
had  found  endurable.  It  reached  only  as  a  distant  mur- 
mur our  pleasant  City  of  Refuge;  where  the  nights 
were  as  quiet  as  the  days,  and  every  morning  we  could 
actually  see  a  bit  of  sunrise,  pink  or  lilac  clouds  floating 
over  the  chimney-tops  (ah !  happily  innocent  of  the 
abominable  coal-smoke  of  London)  of  the  Rue  Boissy 
d'Anglas  and  the  Faubourg  St.  Honore. 

A  tranquil  nook,  though  in  the  very  heart  of  Paris. 
Still,  we  already  sighed  for  the  country :  a  breath  of 
fresh  air,  and  the  sight  of  the  fading  leaves,  before  they 
had  all  dropped  off.  So  we  crossed  to  the  Place  de  la 
Concorde  and  waited  for  a  "tram"  (how  funny  the 
word  looks,  "  tramways,"  both  in  France  and  Italy !), 
determining  to  take  that  simple  route  to  Sevres  and  St. 
Cloud. 

"We  English  make,  I  think,  many  mistakes  in  travel- 
ling. In  the  first  place,  some  of  us  are  too  shy,  and  a 
good  many  more  too  self-conceited,  to  attempt  foreign 


240  A   RUINED   PALACE. 

tongues ;  forgetting  that  to  be  in  a  country  where  you 
cannot  or  will  not  speak  the  language  is  as  foolish  as 
going  to  see  views  with  your  eyes  bandaged  up.  You 
may  pass  easily  from  hotel  to  hotel,  pleased  that  every- 
body pays  you  the  attention  of  addressing  you  in  your 
own  good  English  tongue ;  but  of  the  real  life  of  the 
country  you  are  in,  you  remain  as  utterly  ignorant  as  if 
you  were  blind.  To  enjoy  travelling,  you  must  put 
your  prejudices  in  your  pocket  —  your  dignity,  too, 
sometimes — and  place  yourself  in  sympathy  with  the 
people.  Depend  upon  it,  they  will  seldom  fail,  in  France 
and  Italy  almost  never,  to  show  sympathy  with  you. 

This  I  say,  remembering  the  amount  of  politeness 
and  really  valuable  information  that  we  got  out  of  a 
young  ouvrier  (we  guessed  his  trade  from  his  rough 
hands,  but  should  never  have  done  it  from  his  manner), 
who  sat  beside  us  on  the  top  of  the  tram,  as  we  took 
the  long,  cold  drive  by  the  banks  of  the  Seine,  the  direct 
road  to  Versailles — a  commonplace,  ugly  road,  evident- 
ly full  of  busy  prosperity.  How  strange  to  think  of  the 
days,  so  few  winters  back,  when  all  trade  was  at  a  stand- 
still, and  along  this  road  from  Versailles  to  Paris  was 
incessant  marching  and  fighting — between  French  and 
Germans,  and,  worse,  between  French  and  French  ! 
How  terrible  must  have  been  those  winter  mornings 
when  the  men  of  a  household  started  off  to  their  awful 
day's  work,  knowing  for  certain  that  many  of  them 


A  RUINED   PALACE.  2-il 

would  not  -come  back  at  night !  These  little  white 
crosses  which,  for  the  first  year  or  two  after  the  siege, 
could  be  traced  everywhere,  in  by-roads,  market-gar- 
dens, open  spaces  of  green,  marking  where  soldiers  had 
fallen  and  been  buried  as  they  fell,  have  they  all  been 
removed?  We  almost  hoped  so;  but  it  will  be  long 
years  before  Paris  ceases  to  remember  them. 

Nevertheless,  the  extent  to  which  the  city  has  revived 
is  perfectly  wonderful.  Passing  along  this  road,  so  late- 
ly full  of  fighting  armies,  everything  looked  bright  and 
neat,  as  if  after  centuries  of  prosperity  and  peace.  And 
when  we  stopped  at  Sevres,  and  went  over  the  cele- 
brated china-manufactory,  there  was  no  evidence  of  any- 
thing but  luxury,  on  the  one  hand,  and,  on  the  other, 
the  intelligent  industry  which  provides  for  and  benefits 
by  it.  Not  a  trace  of  aught  painful  of  those  revolu- 
tions which  we  have  almost  come  to  believe  the  normal 
condition  of  France  —  except,  indeed,  a  magnificent 
milk-pail,  once  at  Le  Petit  Trianon,  and  used  there  by 
the  hapless  royal  "  shepherdess,"  Marie  Antoinette ;  also 
a  statuette  or  two  of  the  first  Napoleon.  Of  the  later 
Bonapartes  —  emperor,  empress,  prince  imperial  —  all 
traces  seemed  to  be  as  completely  swept  away  as  if  they 
belonged  to  the  time  of  Charlemagne.  France  has  cer- 
tainly a  grand  talent  pour  oublier. 

Yet  how  clever  she  is!  how  prudent,  economical,  in- 
dustrious !  and  how  gay  through  it  all— innocently  gay ! 
11 


242  A   KUINED   PALACE. 

Especially  her  bourgeois  class,  whom  one  meets  in  omni- 
buses, second-class  railway-carriages,  and  country  streets. 
A  more  respectable  class  does  not  exist.  Monsieur  and 
madame — only  I  ought  to  put  madame  first,  for  she  evi- 
dently manages  the  family — how  domestic  they  look  out 
arm-in-arm  on  a  fe^te  day,  in  their  best  clothes,  with  their 
children  beside  them  !  How  pleasantly  satisfied  they  are 
with  themselves !  how  polite  to  all  the  world,  even  to 
foreigners !  The  trouble  they  will  take  to  understand 
you  —  to  answer  your  questions ;  to  put  you  on  your 
right  road,  often  going  half  a  street's  length  to  do  it ! 
I  wish  some  of  our  saturnine  Britons  would  take  a  les- 
son— in  good  things,  not  bad — from  the  much-abused 
Frenchman. 

But  we  did  not  come  to  Sevres  to  moralize,  especially 
on  this  lovely  day,  so  warm  that  we  might  have  thought 
it  June,  save  for  the  heap  of  dead  November  leaves  un- 
der our  feet,  and  the  brilliant  tints  that  mingled  with 
the  still  vivid  green  of  the  forest  of  St.  Cloud.  In  Eng- 
land one  would  call  it  a  wood,  but  here  it  is  a  forest, 
though  of  the  most  civilized  kind — a  sort  of  Kosherville 
Gardens,  evidently — where  the  bourgeoisie  of  Paris  had 
been  accustomed  to  spend  many  a  happy  day.  Dotted 
here  and  there,  we  noticed  closed  refreshment-booths 
and  piles  of  rickety  chairs,  which  on  Sundays  and 
fe"te  days  had,  no  doubt,  been  well  filled  all  through  the 
summer. 


A   RUINED   PALACE.  243 

But  it  was  winter  now.  The  pleasure-seekers  had 
vanished  like  flies.  Only  one  group,  playing  quoits 
or  bowls,  or  something,  were  heard  enjoying  themselves 
on  a  bit  of  level  green  opposite  the  dried-up  waterfall. 
The  sad  point  of  that  day  was  that  everything  seemed 
dried  up  or  shut  up  or  pulled  down.  All  the  way  from 
Sevres  to  St.  Cloud  we  scarcely  met  a  creature ;  and,  ar- 
rived there,  we  could  find  not  a  soul  about  even  to  show 
us  our  way  to  the  palace. 

"We  must  see  it,"  said  the  only  one  of  our  party  who 
had  been  here  before,  who  dilated  on  its  exceeding 
beauty  and  the  fine  view  from  its  terrace,  though  she 
had  had  great  difficulty  in  getting  admission.  "  But 
that  was  in  the  Second  Empire.  St.  Cloud  had  just  been 
rebuilt  at  great  expense ;  the  empress  liked  it,  and  the  lit- 
tle prince  imperial  was  constantly  here.  I  remember 
seeing  the  model  railway  his  father  had  made  for  him 
in  the  garden,  where  he  used  to  play  for  hours,  like  any 
other  good  little  boy.  Then  almost  nobody  was  allowed 
into  the  palace,  but  I  hear  it  is  all  open  now." 

Alas !  only  too  open.  "When  we  came  upon  it  face 
to  face,  this  ancient,  remodernized  Palace  of  St.  Cloud, 
what  a  piteous  sight  it  was!  Through  its  rows  of 
empty  windows— eyeless  sockets— the  daylight  peered ; 
its  one  remaining  pair  of  shutters  persistently  flapped 
in  the  wind.  Inside,  half-destroyed  staircases  clung  to 
the  walls,  where  fragments  of  blackened  paper  and  gilt 


244  A   KTJINED   PALACE. 

decorations  still  hung.  But  not  a  roof  remained,  not  a 
chamber,  not  a  floor.  Fire  and  fighting  had  done  their 
work.  The  outside  walls  remained;  the  interior  was  a 
total  wreck.  A  slight  wooden  barrier,  which  any  one 
could  have  stepped  over,  alone  kept  out  the  adventurous 
and  intrusive  public  from  this  palace — a  ruined  palace ; 
but  the  ruin  was  that  of  destruction,  without  the  beauty 
of  age  or  the  sanctity  of  natural  decay. 

We  ascended  the  terrace,  obeying  a  strict  injunction 
"not  to  pluck  the  flowers,"  the  half-dozen  stunted 
chrysanthemums,  which  were  all  that  remained  of  what 
must  once  have  been  a  carefully  kept  garden.  Now  it 
was  totally  neglected.  Sitting  down  on  a  half-rotten 
bench,  we  looked  upon  the  view. 

What  a  view !  All  Paris  lay  spread  out  below  like 
a  map.  We  could  distinctly  trace  the  long  lines  of 
streets,  with  the  Arc  de  Triomphe  crowning  all.  Above 
were  the  two  towers  of  Notre  Dame,  the  Trocadero, 
and  the  gilded  dome  of  the  Invalides  glittering  in  the 
sun. 

Paris  is  scarcely  a  picturesque  city ;  not  to  be  com- 
pared with  Rouen,  Edinburgh,  Florence,  Rome,  or  even 
London,  if  one  could  see  that  immense  area  in  a  bird's- 
eye  view.  But  it  looked  well  to-day,  even  to  its  com- 
monplace environs.  There  was  a  wooded  hill  on  our 
right,  with  a  large  building  on  its  summit :  we  almost 
doubted  if  this  were  not  Versailles,  and  put  the  qiies- 


A   RUINED   PALACE.  245 

tion  to  two  wandering  youths  in  clerical  dress — the  only 
living  creatures  here  besides  ourselves.  The  elder,  a 
big  lad  of  about  nineteen,  with  a  pleasant,  intelligent 
face,  stopped  to  explain  that  the  building  we  had  seen 
was  an  orphanage,  managed  by  a  religious  order,  to 
which,  I  think,  he  said  he  belonged.  He  gave  us  the 
fullest  information,  statistical  and  otherwise,  about  it, 
and  then  talked  of  St.  Cloud,  lamenting  bitterly  that  it 
was  not  Prussians,  but  Frenchmen,  who  had  caused  this 
cruel  ruin.  He  talked  so  pleasantly  and  so  long  that 
his  companion  had  to  remind  him  how  their  three  hours' 
leave  of  absence  was  fast  slipping  away,  whereupon  the 
two  took  off  their  caps,  right  off  their  heads,  gathered 
their  black  gowns  round  them,  and  departed.  Poor 
young  priests !  with  their  air  of  honest  cheerfulness — 
like  boys  out  for  a  holiday — we  wondered  what  their 
future  would  be,  especially  considering  the  religious 
crisis  which  France  is  now  going  through,  and  the  end 
of  which  who  can  foresee? 

For,  some  days  after,  we  saw  a  curious  sight.  The 
streets  of  a  country  town  in  Normandy  were  crowded 
with  people,  escorting  half  a  dozen  Capuchins,  who,  af- 
ter barricading  themselves  for  two  days  against  the  sec- 
ular power,  were  at  last  forced  to  quit  their  monastery. 
Each  monk  was  supported  by  two  of  the  towns-people, 
carrying  enormous  bouquets ;  women  threw  other  bou- 
quets out  of  the  windows.  The  worldly  goods  of  the 


246  A   RUINED   PALACE. 

monastery — a  few  canvas  bags  piled  on  a  handcart  and 
a  forlorn -looking  pony — were  viewed  with  deep  inter- 
est, and  the  three  gendarmes  who  rode  gloomily  after 
were  assailed  with  deep  groans.  As  for  the  victims, 
poor  souls,  they  looked  dazed  and  stupid,  or  smiled 
blankly  at  the  sympathetic  throng. 

"It  is  all  the  government's  doing;  but  what  could 
you  expect  from  such  canaille?"  muttered  a  stander-by. 
"  To  turn  the  brethren  out  when  they  never  harmed 
anybody,  and  sometimes  did  a  deal  of  good !  And  see 
how  old  they  are !" 

Yes,  "  old  and  foolish,"  like  King  Lear  or  Eip  Yan 
Winkle ;  for  they  had  a  look  of  having  been  buried  for 
half  a  century  or  so,  and  dug  up  again  to  be  turned 
adrift  in  abject  helplessness  upon  this  unknown  mod- 
ern world.  One  could  not  help  being  sorry  for  them, 
but  less  sorry  than  for  those  two  young  fellows  at  St. 
Cloud,  whose  merry  faces  belied  their  priest's  dress,  as 
they  went  sturdily  on  their  way.  What  excellent  citi- 
zens, husbands,  and  fathers  of  families  were  here  lost  to 
France  and  to  the  world  !  Perhaps  the  crise  religieuse 
may  have  its  advantages,  after  all. 

The  sun-gleams  began  to  melt  away  from  the  brilliant 
dome  of  the  Invalides,  and  a  chill  wind  crept  upwards 
from  the  forest  of  St.  Cloud. 

"We  ought  to  be  going  homewards,  but  there  used 
to  be  a  finer  view  still ;  and  there  was  a  curious  place 


A   KDINED   PALACE.  247 

called  « the  Lantern  of  Diogenes.'  I  wonder  if  this  old 
woman  knows  anything  about  it !" 

She  was  a  poor  old  creature,  carrying  a  heavy  bundle 
of  fagots— yellow,  wrinkled,  toothless  —  with  a  skin 
like  leather,  and  a  cavernous  voice.  But  she  answered, 
with  the  politeness  that  is  never  wanting  in  a  French 
peasant,  "  Plait-il?"  and  curved  her  hand  over  her  deaf 
ear,  so  as  to  catch  what  madame  was  saying.  No ;  she 
knew  nothing  of  the  Lantern  of  Diogenes — of  any  sort 
of  view.  "  There  is  the  palace  " — pointing  to  it  with  a 
skinny  finger — "  but  I  do  not  know  anything  else.  All 
is  so  changed — so  changed !"  And,  feebly  shaking  her 
old  head,  she  took  up  her  bundle  and  tottered  away. 

Yet  she  must  have  seen  it  all.  The  old  palace,  as  it 
looked  in  the  days  of  the  First  Empire ;  then  the  splen- 
dors of  the  Second  Empire,  and  its  downfall ;  more 
revolutions;  foreign  and  internecine  war;  fire,  bom- 
bardment, and  the  ruined  palace  as  it  looked  now; 
destroyed,  as  the  young  priests  had  indignantly  told 
us,  not  by  the  Germans,  but  by  the  French  themselves. 
Change,  indeed !  nothing  but  change ! 

"  We  are  the  laughing-stock  of  Europe,"  said  a  French 
gentleman  to  me,  some  days  after,  with  great  bitterness. 
Not  exactly  so,  while  so  many  noble  hearts  remain  in 
France ;  but  most  truly  she  is  the  puzzle  and  the  pity 
of  Europe. 

The  entrance  of  St.  Cloud  is  really  beautiful.     We 


5i48  A   RUINED   PALACE. 

stood  admiring  the  fine  fagade,  reflected  into  the  water 
— artificially  made — which  comes  to  the  very  palace 
doors.  This  part  of  it  had  suffered  least.  The  great 
gates,  shutting  up  nothing,  were  firmly  closed,  as  if  it 
were  an  inhabited  palace  still.  But  it  looked  so  dreary, 
so  unutterably  desolate ! 

At  this  moment  we  caught  the  tramp  of  feet  and  the 
shrill  notes  of  that  horrible,  ear-piercing  noise  which  the 
French  call  "  military  music."  We  watched  the  regi- 
ment pass — mere  lads  many  of  them,  with  dull,  phleg- 
matic faces,  as  if  each  had  tire  son  sort  and  submitted  to 
a  conscript's  destiny,  but  without  the  slightest  military 
ardor  or  enthusiasm.  Is  it  really  so?  Yet  French- 
men can  fight,  and  have  proved  it.  Has  la  gloire  be- 
come now  a  mere  name  ?  It  seemed  almost  so,  as  they 
marched  lazily  by — rough,  untidy-looking  fellows,  with- 
out any  of  the  briskness  and  smartness  of  our  British 
"  line."  Not  one  of  them  glanced  up  at  the  ruined  pal- 
ace, so  lately  made  a  ruin  by  men  like  themselves,  who, 
doubtless,  are  ready  for  the  same  work  again,  did  they 
get  the  same  chance.  Kevolution  ;  nothing  but  revolu- 
tion. As  they  say,  any  week  anything  may  happen  in 
France,  except  what  is  expected  to  happen. 

It  was  all  so  sad — so  infinitely  sad — that  almost  the 
brightest  bit  of  it  was  the  recollection  of  that  poor  boy 
who  used  to  play  with  his  mock  railway  in  the  pal- 
ace gardens,  but  who,  exiled  and  homeless,  managed  to 


A   RUINED   PALACE.  249 

make  himself  a  home  in  English  hearts,  and  died  with 
Englishmen  in  Zululand — died  like  a  hero,  with  all  his 
wounds  in  front,  so  that  the  last  of  the  Bonapartes 
was  not  unworthy  the  first. 

As  the  soldiers  marched  away  the  sun  set,  a  heavy 
black  cloud  rose  up  behind  the  ruined  palace,  and  large 
thunder-drops  began  to  fall.  But  higher  up  the  sky 
was  still  intensely  bright  and  clear,  and  the  last  swal- 
lows of  the  year  went  skimming  through  it,  almost  out 
of  sight,  like  freed  souls,  far  above  all  the  bitterness 
and  turmoil  of  this  world. 

Perhaps,  after  all,  it  was  better  for  that  poor  boy  that 
he  died  in  his  youth,  beloved,  honored,  and  mourned, 
than  lived  to  be  the  curse  of  France,  as,  however  unwit- 
tingly, he  might  have  been. 

So,  adieu  to  the  ruined  Palace  of  St.  Cloud,  with  all 
its  historical  memories,  and  its  infinite  suggestions  of 
lost  lives,  lost  hopes,  lost  dynasties.  It  must  be  so. 
In  this  world,  and  especially  in  France,  there  is  noth- 
ing immutable  but  mutability. 


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That  tender  pathos,  which  could  sink  so  deep— that  gentle  humor,  which 
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